


Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves

by melly_diamond, readbythilia (thilia)



Series: Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Case Fic, Download Available, F/M, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 2.5-3 Hours, Police Officer Derek Hale, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25543249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melly_diamond/pseuds/melly_diamond, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thilia/pseuds/readbythilia
Summary: In the near decade since the Hunter Wars, much has changed. Stiles has fulfilled his dream of becoming an FBI agent, and not just any agent - a recognized, respected profiler in the BAU unit. He has a stellar career, a great girlfriend, respect and prominence.He also still has memories of a werewolf, the nights they nearly died, and the emotions those nights left behind. But that was a long time ago, and Derek Hale is in his rear view mirror - until he's not.When there are a string of murders in the West Virginia mining town of Bartley, authorities suspect it might be the start of a serial killer's career, and call in the BAU, and specifically, Special Agent Stilinski to help them catch a killer. Stiles' concerned father, Sheriff Stilinski, sends his deputy, Lieutenant Derek Hale to assist.  Can the two catch a killer before more people die? And can they work together without killing each other?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850908
Comments: 36
Kudos: 102
Collections: Pod_Together 2020





	Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves

  
  


  
[MP3 with music](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/qgdxdqqstp9b8xj/%5Bpodfic%5D%20Wanted%20-%20Suspect%2C%20Motive%2C%20Random%20Wolves.mp3) [02:37:00 | 143 MB]

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**Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves ...**

“I heard from Stiles today,” said John, leaning back in his chair; it was after hours, the office was quiet, and they were sharing a greasy takeout meal of bacon burgers and onion rings. “He sounded tired, but he was checking in like the good kid he is.”

“Did you?” Derek lifted a brow and reached for a ring. “It’s so weird that I still see him as a skinny kid with a backpack ten times his body weight, but he’s a grown man now, big FBI agent.”

“I know, I know. I can’t believe he’s about to turn 27 in a few weeks; feels like high school graduation was yesterday.” John sipped his Diet Mountain Dew, his and his son’s only shared vice - Stiles would kill him if he knew his Dad was drinking as much as he himself did, but John could always point out that when Stiles gave blood, it had a weird, neon green tint to it, so who was he to judge?

“Feels like the Hunter Wars were yesterday,” murmured Derek, cause that’s the last he’d seen of Stiles. Not due to any bad blood, any unspoken words, any misplaced emotion, but simply because Stiles had headed back to Quantico, and Derek had gone to Mexico for a while - three years to be exact - and then returned to Beacon Hills and accepted John’s offer to sponsor him through police academy training, on the condition that he come back to Beacon Hills and work with him. Derek had been skeptical at first, but he had no other plans, this was his home, weird shit still occasionally happened, and he found he liked police work. Loved it, really, and the BHSD had never had such a high solve rate. Plus, John had stepped into the role of father figure to him, in a way; he knew John missed Stiles, and he did too, though he never spoke of it, and Derek would forever miss his own Dad - he was absolutely sure John and Samuel would have been fishing buddies immediately.

Derek looked up from his burger. “So, was he just checking in, or…?”

“Checking in and asking advice from his old man, actually,” said John, wiping his mouth with a fistful of napkins. “He has a very odd case he’s working on, in the mountains of West Virginia, Bartley, I think he said? Mining community, tight knit, a lot of inbreeding.”

Derek reached for his smoothie. “That sounds like the start of a Graham Masterson novel, or maybe Stephen King. That’s in the Appalachians - I can’t imagine they take well to some outsider poking around, and the fact that it’s a Fed is worse.”

“That’s pretty much what he said,” John acknowledged. “It’s a series of nasty murders; originally they thought it might be a family dispute, which would be bad enough, but now, it’s looking like a random repeat killer. More bodies have turned up and the killing seems stylized.”

“Fuck,” muttered Derek, both brows up now, and John nodded. “Yeah, fuck, exactly.”

Derek finished his burger and wiped his hands and face. “So, he’s been profiling, and investigating, both?”

“Yeah - his background gives him an advantage when it comes to the offbeat, obviously, and he did concentrate on serial killers when he did his internship, so this naturally fell to him.” John had not been surprised when he found out about Stiles’ fascination with human monsters - he’d been dealing with inhuman monsters for years.

“They think it’s a serial killer. Jesus. I hope he’s watching his back.”

A moment later, Derek wished he hadn’t said that, but John sighed. “I told him to. Don’t know how much he listened, because he was really … you know how intent he’d get when he was trying to figure things out? His boards, his strings, his notes? I will bet you a week’s pay that his apartment in Burke is one giant pinboard. And he sounded distracted the way he used to, which is rare these days. Marcy tends to ground him, thank God.”

This was the first Derek had heard of Marcy, Mary, Leah, Matilda or anyone else. “Marcy?”

“His girlfriend,” John clarified, sweeping the wrappers and napkins into the garbage. “She’s an agent too, but not in the Behavioral Unit. I think she’s part of the Cyber Criminals Unit, tech stuff. I haven’t met her, but I’ve seen her on Skype. Pretty girl.”

Derek was still processing Stiles having a girlfriend - of course he’d had Lydia, but he’d heard that had ended and then nothing else about a relationship. He couldn’t even imagine Stiles in a fully adult relationship, honestly. He couldn’t imagine that constantly whirring brain being able to focus on another person’s needs and wants. It wasn’t that Stiles was selfish in any way - he was just laser-focused on whatever he was obsessed with at the time, and Derek couldn’t see anything interfering with that focus. Not even Lydia.

Let alone a _Marcy._

He blinked, because John was speaking again, and he heard his name. “What was that? Sorry, bacon and cheddar sauce overload. I can feel my blood sugar spiking.”

“I was saying to Stiles that it might not be a bad idea to enlist some help, someone who had a talent for getting to the center of things and had amazing tracking abilities. Someone who could pick up a scent, blood or otherwise, and sniff out a killer - so to speak.”

Shit. **Shit.** “Are you suggesting I go to West Virginia?

“You two always made a good team, once you learned to tolerate and understand each other,” said John calmly. “It’s quiet here, I have Parrish, and it sounds like Stiles could really use your help. Is there any reason you’d object to going?”

“I …” Derek fumbled for a reason, could think of a million of them, yet not one that would suffice in this situation. “I … would he even want that? We haven’t spoken for almost eight years, and he’s established this whole personal, domestic life there at Quantico that I know nothing about.”

John nodded. “This is all true, but the way he sounded; he sounded like he used to, when he got so deep into what was happening here in town that he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. You were always a steadying influence, Derek, and I know you could help. I wouldn’t force you to go, of course,” added John. “I guess I just would like to see my two sons working together and even though he didn’t say anything specifically, I know when Stiles is starting to get overwhelmed. He might be an adult, he might be a big shot, but he’s still my kid, and I listen to him and know.”

Derek loved hearing John call him his son, cause at this point, Derek had learned that you chose family as well as were gifted to them. Granted, his own family - specifically Peter - was a gift he’d often wished he could return for store credit, but John was family. And by extension, Stiles was, too. And if he was honest, maybe Stiles always had been family.

“Are you going to call him and tell him I’m coming?” The words, unplanned, surprised him as much as John. “Or should he wake up to me sitting on his desk chair like he used to in high school?”

Despite himself, he grinned. “Your son taught me obscenities I’d never known existed on those mornings. I think he actually made some of them up on the spot.”

John laughed, leaning back. “He was always creative that way, much to his elementary school teacher’s dismay. I think you should go unannounced, because then he has no time to plan out all the ways he doesn’t need help - you have a better chance at getting to the truth, which is that he does need help. He needs _your_ help.”

Derek rubbed the back of his head. “You’re sure you have shifts covered and all that?”

“I’m sure. Natalie is working like a demon on her master’s thesis, so I have some extra time - I’ll cover a few shifts. Parrish is up for it, and the new recruit is ready to have her own car so it will be fine. Between you and Stiles, I figure you’ll wrap it up sooner, rather than later. Stay away too long and I might have to change my mind.” He smiled. “But I have faith in you two.”

“Let’s hope it’s not misplaced,” murmured Derek as the radio crackled and he reached for it. “Go for Hale.”

It was a robbery, and Derek stood, stretched, and took a breath. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck, Derek. You _are_ luck.”

Derek swallowed and left the office, getting on his Harley - police issue *cough* and leaving for the scene, his mind flooded with memories.

*~*

In his office in the Behavioral Unit at Quantico, Stiles looked up from his computer screen and rubbed his eyes; he was in a small suite of offices with a few other agents who doubled as profilers and were headquartered at the training site - he’d much rather be here than in the main unit in DC. He stayed as far away from Washington as he could lately, and so did most of the people he knew.

He leaned back in his chair, looked around; his office was a certified disaster area, and others entered gingerly, sat down carefully, as though something might be lurking under the piles of books and papers. For all Stiles knew, an entire community of aliens could be sharing space under his desk à la Men in Black - it might explain why his coffee disappeared with such regularity and why his cigarettes went missing with alarming frequency.

He blew out a breath, then rose slowly, his knees cracking, popping like gunshots; he was only 26 (for a couple of weeks more, anyway) but his body thought he was 70. To be fair, he abused his body with an insane amount of caffeine, nicotine, and chemical preservatives, but so did half the US - he wasn’t alone. Stiles reached for his nearly empty box of Marlboro Reds and headed outside, cursing the fact that he couldn’t smoke indoors, like on “Mindhunter.” Those 1970’s guys had had it made - he wanted to be Bill Tench but was afraid he was more Holden Ford, neuroses and all.

Outside, leaning against the building with a cigarette in hand, he checked his personal phone; five missed texts from Marcy, asking when he was coming home for dinner, if they were going to dinner, if he wanted her to cook, if they wanted to cook together, and again, was he coming home?

He sighed and checked the time; 2 hours after she’d texted. Shit. 

_Babe, I’m sorry, I lost track of time. If you want to order pizza, I’ll be back to our place in about half an hour. If not, I promise to …_

He paused. What could he promise? He was leaving for Bartley again in the morning.

_… I have nothing to promise. I’m sorry, this case is eating my brain._

That was not untrue; he had been in Bartley for two long, dead-end weeks this time, four and a half in total, and had driven back for two days to regroup and look up a few things in his library, but things were escalating and he had to be there for the next murder. Because, of course, there would be another. And another and another unless he stopped it. He felt no bravado thinking that - it would have to be him, because their sheriffs were in over their heads and frankly, not that bright. Stiles didn’t blame them - they’d never seen anything like this before, and most of them took a law enforcement class in high school and assuming they graduated, became deputies. Stiles wasn’t even sure they had to graduate, to be honest - his own bachelor’s degree in pre-law from Georgetown U made him seem like he was from another planet. It fit - he felt like an alien when he was in the wide spot in the road, known as Bartley.

A text back. _I want to be mad, but pizza is fine. And you. Really, ramen is fine if I can just see you for a few hours before you leave again._

He swallowed, took a drag, blew out smoke, texted back. _I don’t deserve you. I’ll bring the pizza - bacon and mushrooms?_

_You do not deserve me, this is true. And perfect. Also, garlic bread with cheese. I’m PMS-ing and I need carbs. TMI, not sorry. Love you!_

Stiles laughed, then called, placed the order, finished his cigarette, and went back inside to pack up his bag and lock up his office - he looked it over longingly. He loved field work, but this case was driving him fucking insane.

He had turned the facts over and over in his mind, placing them in order as if reporting to a superior in his head.

The first murder had happened approximately five weeks ago but had not been property reported for four days. The best explanation was that they couldn’t determine a COD so had not been able to file correct paperwork, which was bullshit - murder was a murder.

The first murder had been a simple rip-and-tear; limbs half-pulled off, excessive blood, etc. If one didn’t know better, one could almost think it had been an animal mauling, but as far as Stiles knew, bears couldn’t shoot a Ruger SR9C - at least not with any degree of accuracy, and so the single shot to the back of the head was probably of human doing. Stiles listed “probably,” because there were so many other entities in the world than humans and animals. So many.

His brain wanted to make a “right to arm bears” joke, but no. Okay, yes, and he had to smirk, just a little.

The first contact sheriffs on scene had hopelessly fucked up the crime site; from photos Stiles had seen, there had been two, or maybe three sets of footprints that had tracked through blood, mud and what looked like entrails; his stomach had flipped over uneasily as he studied the pics, and he’d taken a swig of cold coffee before tossing the cup in the trash. Even better, the photos had been taken with a Polaroid instamatic, which was not known for its stunning clarity, and on top of that, the deputy’s hands had shaken like a motherfucker, so the photos were basically useless. On top of all that, once the body had been removed, they’d tried to clean up the house … with bleach. Bleach, the stuff that killed DNA.

Stiles could only hope the cleanup had been as slipshod as the reporting, and that his tech could still find something. Poor Rory was still stuck down there, trying to gather enough samples to fully process in the FBI crime lab.

The victim themselves had been no one of note; a retail employee, with no apparent enemies and no notable achievements. He’d been a hunter in the common sense - Stiles and the sheriffs had found a couple of hunting rifles and the accompanying ammunition, and he’d had the requisite stuffed buck head hanging on his wall. God, Stiles hated that; he thought taxidermy was the creepiest fucking thing in the entire world, but everyone he had talked to so far seemed to have some poor animal pelt, head, antlers, etc. in their possession. He had to admit though, at one time, he would have happily had Gerard and Kate Argent’s heads hanging on his wall, mostly so he could practice knife-throwing.

So now, he had one body cooling in the coroner’s vault in the nearest decent sized town, when another murder was reported - and the manner of death, the arrangement of what was left of the bodies, the ripped up insides? Same. Same.

Also, the third. Same. Same.

So that was where Stiles found himself; three murders in a five-week period, all bearing the hallmarks of a serial killer, all happening in a tiny, insular town that made Twin Peaks look like Indianapolis. Thus far, he hadn’t been able to make a connection between the three victims, and Stiles knew why - they were outsiders. They were FBI, they were the government, the men in black. Hell, he wished he was MIB right now; he’d use the flashy-thingy neuralizer on _himself._

He unlocked his black FBI-issued SUV, complete with GPS that could find a needle in a haystack, a laptop that could search millions of databases in .0002 seconds and probably launch missiles, and handy slots for his phone, flashlight and gun, cause what else did an intrepid agent need?

He stopped at Fiorino’s to pick up his order and smoked another cigarette until it was ready, then grabbed a Diet Mountain Dew for the ride home, maneuvering through traffic till he reached the relative calm of his neighborhood, finally pulling in behind Marcy’s blue Honda Civic. He grabbed his backpack - FBI issue -, shoved his phone into his pocket and took the boxes into his apartment, where light, warmth, food, and a beautiful, smart-as-fuck woman awaited him.

*~*

After checking out the robbery - a pizza place - and tracking the suspect down easily enough, Derek dragged the guy, a known meth addict, back to the station to be processed. It was hard to elude Derek Hale anyway, and even harder with anchovy breath, as the suspect, one Harnden Rowe soon found out. 

“Jesus,” said Parrish, wrinkling his nose - as a hellhound, his sense of smell was comparable to Derek’s and they both grimaced as Derek tossed a limp and dispirited - though full - culprit into a holding cell. ‘Who the fuck puts little smelly fish on their pizza?”

“Crackheads, apparently,” replied Derek. “He got away with 90 bucks, a small pizza and three bags of breadsticks. Didn’t even share the breadsticks with me, did you Harnden?”

“Sorry,” muttered the guy, and closed his eyes. He was obviously coming down from a high and was hungry; Derek estimated he probably hadn’t eaten for four or five days. You’d have to be desperate to steal anchovy pizza.

“Smelly or not, he’s your problem now, compadre,” said Derek. “I’m gonna go shower and try to forget that breath.”

“Gotcha,” said Parrish, giving the dude another look - he was snoring now - and turning back to Derek. “Sheriff says you’re heading to West Virginia to help Stiles out. Say hi to him for me, it’s been years.”

Derek blinked. “Ah yeah, I thought I’d fly out, see if I can offer any assistance; sounds like he’s got a mess up there.” He didn’t know how much John had said to Parrish, so he was trying to step carefully.

“He does. That’s coal mining society, and a lot of those families are, shall we say, familiar?” said Parrish diplomatically, making Derek snort. 

“You mean inbred.”

“You said it, not me. But yeah. I have cousins in the Appalachians and it’s … it’s a rough place, Derek. Some unexplained things happen out there every few years - things like what used to happen around here,” he said meaningfully. “It may be something, or not anything at all to worry about, but watch your back, okay? Watch Stiles’ back too - he’s been away a while.”

Derek took a breath. “He hasn’t forgotten. How could he?”

Parrish shrugged. “Our Nemeton is shut down,” he said. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t others that are still active, and Stiles has been working regular law and order for a while now.”

“Serial killers aren’t exactly regular law and order,” Derek pointed out, although he knew exactly what Parrish meant, and Parrish knew he knew.

“No, but they’re still basically human men and women,” Parrish continued. “And humans are what Stiles deals with these days. You’ll remind him that there are things that are not all one or the other and … just be careful, Derek, okay?”

The two men locked eyes until Derek nodded, and Parrish put out his hand. “Keep in touch. Keep the kid who’s not a kid anymore, safe. Keep yourself safe.”

Derek nodded, shook Parrish’ hand, and left the station; in the holding cell, Harnden muttered in his methamphetamine dream.

A truly punishing run and hot, hot shower later, Derek was in his tiny studio apartment - yes, he’d rebuilt the Hale house along with Peter, but Peter currently lived there, along with various stragglers of their former lives. Malia occasionally lived there, Cora used it as a base, Isaac and Jackson were known to bunk there from time to time - even Chris Argent was a guest more often than not. Derek couldn’t imagine what he and Peter would talk about - he wasn’t sure he’d want to know. He himself passed by on his runs and occasionally spied Peter out drinking wine on the back porch, but he still didn’t know what to say to his uncle, even after all these years and all the experiences they’d shared. He didn’t know if he ever would know. 

It was easier to be in town, close to the station, close to the action, and Derek didn’t need much. John had told him it looked like a monk’s dwelling with internet and nicer bedding, and he wasn’t wrong. His portion of the Hale family money was locked in an iron trust that even Peter couldn’t break, and Derek lived off his police wages. It was more than enough for him.

He settled down on his couch with a Molson and his laptop, accessed a variety of law enforcement databases and started to catch up with one Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Stilinski, Mieczysław, known as “Stiles,” of Quantico’s Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU).

Two hours later, eyes stinging from the bright computer screen, he set the laptop aside, finished his third beer and rubbed his face. He was probably only halfway through Stiles’ exploits and he was already swarmed by feelings ranging from stunned amazement to actual, gut-busting pride.

That kid, that spazzy fucking fifteen-year-old with the smart mouth, the unpredictable pent up emotions, the ever-ticking analytical brain he’d met twelve years ago was something else. Something unbelievable, something incredible. 

His internship with the FBI starting at eighteen; his graduation from Georgetown University with a double major in psychobiology and criminal justice with a 3.9 GPA at twenty-two, his two years in the field solving federal bank robberies, homicides and kidnappings, his movement to the BAU at twenty-four, and his subsequent work with the tracking and deciphering the code of the serial killer … Derek found himself staring at the screen in disbelief. He was a wunderkind.

But he was still only human, his subconscious supplied helpfully. And humans can get hurt, even really fucking brilliant ones.

Derek stretched, used the bathroom, switched to ice water, and went back to reading, this time about the murders Stiles was investigating; one particular news agency in the adjoining town was obviously bent on making a name for itself with meticulous and often gruesome footage of the crimes - Derek had no idea how it was obtained, cause the public should never see that - and attempts at interviews with the primary players, including one Mieczyslaw Stilinski.

He replayed that clip about a dozen times, finally stopping the frame on the best color shot of Stiles; he looked the same, yet not at all. Taller, it seemed, yet filled out - there was muscle underneath that suit jacket - lean face, tight smile, short hair- not the high school buzz, but not that far off, either - and he still talked with his hands. Derek studied them, saw the telltale slight yellowish tinge of the dedicated smoker on his right index and middle fingers. He wasn’t surprised, honestly. Stiles was nothing if not orally fixated.

His voice was a bit deeper, a little more husky than before; whether that was due to smoking or lack of sleep didn’t really matter, cause it had a decidedly odd effect on Derek, and he shoved those thoughts back and listened as Stiles said as much as he legally could about the case, and lied about the rest. He still had his tell of the overly direct gaze, the child who swore they hadn’t eaten all their Halloween candy in one night, “Really, Dad, I promise!” Non-lying people didn’t make full eye contact all the time - their eyes naturally shifted and changed focus. Not Stiles. And that’s how Derek knew how serious all this really was.

When he had read everything that he could legally or barely-legally access, he shut down and did some deep breathing exercises before sliding into bed; sleep came easily to him these days, most of the time, but sometimes, he still replayed his past in his mind.

Tonight, was one of those nights.

*~*

Stiles had been forgiven for being late, had been wined and dined, and had been rewarded for his hard work with a good three and a half hours of fun and games on the couch, the floor, and eventually the bed. Then the shower. Stiles couldn’t believe he’d lasted all that time, but Marcy had some serious juju going on in that area and he was in lustful awe of her.

He should have been wrecked and slept half the day the next day, but alas, his body clock was always on serial-killer time, and he barely managed to sleep ten minutes past his alarm. Marcy had already left, but had left him a note asking him to call before he got back on the road; he was driving this time, hating rental cars and wanting his own FBI ride with all the accoutrements, Plus, he had no idea when he’d be back and didn’t need friendly reminders from the accountants that he’d had a rental for 28 days and counting at $55 per day. He knew.

Another quick shower, cold this time, and Stiles repacked his bag, methodically rolling his t-shirts and underwear with the same dexterity he and Scott had once rolled other things - the thought made him smile and vow to FaceTime his friend before plunging back into the shitstorm that was Bartley, West Virginia.

He disassembled, cleaned, and reloaded his Glock 22 S&W, filling several ammunition clips that would be ready on his gun belt, just in case. He also inspected his personal Ruger Mark IV and stashed it in his car. No one he’d ever grown up with would have trusted him with a slingshot, and now, he could fire, reload, take apart and reassemble literally any handgun, automatic weapon or long gun in seconds. It was ironic in the extreme, and Stiles knew no one found it more amazing than his own father.

He made sure he had everything he needed, then stopped at a gas station to fuel up, check his oil and tires, and to buy his poison; two twelve-packs of Diet Mountain Dew and several - too many - packs of Marlboros. Plus, another pack of lighters because he lost them like THAT was his job.

Properly caffeinated and nicotined, he set off, having set his GPS; much of it was highway till near the end, and Stiles found it soothing. He relished the quiet - it wouldn’t be for long.

*~*

“Kozy Komfort Motel” didn’t seem particularly inclined towards either “Kozy” or “Komfortable,” but Derek wasn’t picky - what he was, was tired, and it had beds that seemed reasonably clean, lots of towels, toilets with a sani-strip across them and clean drinking glasses, so Derek could live with this.

He bought the two local papers from the stand beside the desk, and noted two black vehicles, and a dark gray van in the parking lot, all with Federal plates. He wondered which one was Stiles’, if any. He was sure he could find out by simply walking around the cars and sniffing, but he wasn’t entirely ready. He needed a shower, a beer - he’d stopped for a six pack - and frankly, a nap would not be amiss. It was 2 PM EST, which meant it was 11 AM PST and God, jet lag was real. He must be getting old, cause even his wolfy self was beat.

He was sliding the key card on his door when a vehicle pulled into the gravel lot behind him, parked, and a man got out - the scent hit him immediately, and he took a breath, then dropped his shoulders, turning as Stiles stood there and stared. 

“Derek?”

Derek smiled a little. “Hello, Stiles.”

Stiles shoved his hands in the pocket of his FBI windbreaker. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice cool, flat - but then, a second later, a pause. “Hello, Mr. Hale.”

Derek tried to not show surprise at the tone of Stiles’ voice, but then again, what had he expected? A lilt, the sentence rising at the end, followed by that quick, wide smile and maybe even a hug? A clap on the shoulder, a punch in the arm?

Stiles didn’t move, just stood there, looking at him, and all Derek could do was respond, “Long time no see Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles still wasn’t moving, and it was freaking him out. He tried again.

“It has been a while, Stiles. Almost nine years, I think. You’re about to have a birthday in a few weeks, I believe. 27, man. You’re catching up to me.”

“How did you … oh, Dad. Yeah, in November. And you’ll always be way older than me.”

There it was, a little smile, the change in posture, and Stiles was crossing the few steps to where Derek was standing by his door, till they were a few inches apart. Derek smelled coffee, smoke, soap, some woodsy scent, and frustration, annoyance, and wear.

He hoped the annoyance and frustration wasn’t due to him being there, but he supposed he couldn’t blame Stiles if it were.

They were eye to eye - Stiles was even a bit taller now - and Derek reached and put his hand on Stiles’ bicep, squeezing lightly. “It’s good to see you.”

Stiles licked his lips, and sighed, reaching for Derek and pulling him into a one-armed hug. “You too, Derek.”

The hug lasted only a moment before Stiles pulled back. “Are you here out of base curiosity or did Dad send you to make sure I’m not losing my mind?”

Derek leaned against his door. “Both. He mentioned that you were under a lot of stress, we talked a little about the case, he said he thought I might be able to help - better than a bloodhound, you know? He’s worried about you, but not because he doesn’t think you can do it. He knows you can. He knows you have. This case is just a whole lot of gruesome and he’s still your dad.”

Stiles chuffed a small laugh. “He’s not wrong about the gruesome. Have you … ?” He looked down at the thin newsprint in Derek’s hand. “Ah, papers. You’ve read up, then?”

“Only what’s online - this is the first local news I’ve seen - I literally just drove in from Dulles.” He indicated a Nissan Pathfinder a few slots over. “But I read a lot last night - yesterday, whatever. It’s pretty fucked up. I mean, I know you specialize in fucked up these days, but this is …”

“Extra-fucked.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles rubbed his face, “Well, since you’re here - the teenage part of me wants to rage at you that I can do this my own fucking self, thank you, and the rest of me says “Don’t look a gift wolf in the mouth.”

“Always a good idea. We have very sharp teeth,” said Derek seriously, and Stiles snorted, eyes crinkling a little. He stepped back and reached for a cigarette, lighting up and allowing the smoke to float away from Derek, for all the good it would do. 

“How long are you here for, then?” asked Stiles through a cloud of smoke, and Derek shrugged, eyes moving over him. “As long as you need help, I guess. There was no time limit mentioned - Beacon Hills is pretty quiet right now, John has Parrish, and if anything odd happens, well there are still pack members around.”

“Like Scott.”

“Like Scott. And Peter, Liam, sometimes Malia, Isaac occasionally. It’s sort of like a TV show with a few regulars and the occasional guest stars for Very Special Episodes.”

Stiles gaped, and nearly dropped his smoke. “Did you just make a joke, Derek? You?”

“I might have,” acknowledged Derek. “I do that sometimes, now. Hell, I’m the funny one at the station.”

“Jesus,” said Stiles, shaking his head. “They are badly off then. Goddamn.”

“Not everyone can be a Stiles,” shrugged Derek. “Few even try.”

“They’d fail. I’m an original, you know.”

“I do know.” Boy, didn’t he know.

Stiles finished his cigarette, then tossed it in the receptacle. “I’m not gonna lie - I’ll be processing your sudden reappearance in my life for a little while, but my gut instinct is to be glad you’re here.”

“Well, that’s more than I’d expected, honestly,” said Derek. “You were never much for assistance, and to be fair, you were usually miles ahead of us mentally anyway. So, either you’ve gotten even smarter or we were all pretty dumb then.”

That earned him an actual grin. “Both. Definitely both.”

Derek rolled his eyes, then licked his lips. “You may not need me. You might not wind up even wanting me here, but I’m … there’s no …”

He chewed his lip, thinking of the best wording to use. “Ulterior motive. I’d heard of the case from the weekly FBI bulletins, then your dad mentioned it, and you, and then I researched what I could, from what I could find. Then I came here. There’s no backstory or …”

“Emotion?” suggested Stiles, and now he was looking at Derek in that direct manner, and Derek shrugged. “Look, your teenage years and my 20’s are behind us. I had issues, and I still do. So did you. Sometimes we got along, sometimes not, but I always respected your brains and resolve, as well as your buoyancy.”

He said this with a perfectly straight face, and it took Stiles a second, but he laughed - a full, genuine laugh that surprised them both. “You asshole,” said Stiles, gaining his breath. “You’re goddamn lucky I’m buoyant because I saved your furry ass that day. I nearly drowned fifteen times and all you could do was bitch.”

Derek was laughing now too. “I was pissed off - fucking Jackson had just paralyzed me and the only person who could keep me afloat was, well, you.” He shook his head. “Puny human.”

“Puny human that you owe big,” said Stiles, finally relaxed. “So, time to pay up, Sourwolf. Your nose and bullshit detector are on loan till I find this motherfucker and rearrange his body parts.”

“Sourwolf is now Sweetwolf,” Derek informed him. “I buy coffee for everyone on the reg.”

“Jesus Christ, _Sweetwolf?_ ” Stiles rubbed his face. “You might go broke buying coffee for me.”

“Better coffee than cigarettes.” Derek held up both hands. “That’s it, my one comment. Done.”

“Better be. I’m not up for ten PSAs per day on how terrible smoking is,” Stiles warned. “Trust me, I have already heard and discarded them all.”

“I would expect nothing less,” said Derek. “You’re a grown man, and I respect that.”

Stiles eyed him narrowly, then smirked. “Okay, I don’t believe that shit for a moment, but look, you looked ready to go in and probably sleep, yeah? If you wanna take a nap, I’m gonna meet with the locals at 4PM and go over anything new and fun, then talk to my crime scene tech - you wanna be in on all that?”

“Yes. How are you gonna explain my being here to them?”

“Some bullshit consultant - I’ll figure it out.” Stiles took a breath. “It’s good to see you, Derek. I mean that, truly.”

“Okay, I don’t believe that shit for a moment,” started Derek, then smiled. “Same, Stiles.”

Stiles winked at him, then turned away, rolling his shoulders, and walking off towards his own room, feeling Derek’s eyes on him at every step - it felt oddly familiar and not that unwelcome.

Derek went to his room - or approximation of one - and showered, standing under the hot water and surprisingly strong spray, and breathed deeply. Seeing Stiles on screen was one thing - seeing, sensing, smelling him in person was an entirely other thing, and Derek was proud of how he’d handled it; his control as a werewolf was exemplary. His control as a human was sometimes spotty, still, even at 35 years old. But he had had a whole flight and drive to assimilate seeing Stiles again, and he felt okay about the interaction. It had set a decent precedent, and he was fairly sure that when Stiles looked in his eyes, he couldn’t see that he was the second person in Derek’s life to break his whole heart.

He was sure he wouldn’t sleep, but set his alarm for 3.30 anyway, laying down on the bed fully dressed, and amazingly, unexpectedly, dropped off into nothingness.

Stiles had gone to his room too, had washed up, and then successfully battled his addiction, and had not gone back outside to smoke five cigarettes - but he wanted to. 

Derek Fucking HALE was here. In the flesh, eager - well, maybe that was an exaggeration - but willing and able to help. Help him, of all people, to find a killer. 

It wasn’t like this was the first time they’d worked together to identify and take a murderer out of circulation - God knew, Gerard Argent had been one of the worst offenders Stiles would ever encounter - but it was the first time since the Hunter Wars and that last night that they’d been face to face. That was almost ten years ago now, but in Stiles’ unable-to-let-things-go brain, it could have happened yesterday. And for him to look at Derek and remain cool, calm, and collected was a victory. Plus, Stiles was tired as fuck and anger required a level of energy that even copious vials of 5-Hour Energy couldn’t give him.

He knew he wouldn’t sleep, didn’t even try. He called Rory and had the crime scene reenactment photos sent to him, the latest field test results, and then he scanned the photos into the program he’d written that compared placement, measurements, positioning, body temp and lividity, always searching for patterns; most killers had one. The first was an experiment, even a fluke, but by the second, they’d learned a few things. By the third murder, they’d started to develop their own style, their signature. If they set out to be a serial murderer, they might already have a flourish in mind - like BTK, that sick fuck. But Stiles didn’t think this killer knew entirely what he or she was doing, not yet. But they were getting there, and that’s what he was afraid of.

He finally leaned back, pulling out his Visine and popping a few drops in each eye, then getting up to stretch, get a drink of water, pull out a Diet Mountain Dew and grab his bag on the way out to meet the local sheriff.

Derek was waiting, leaning on his Pathfinder and sipping from a large bottle of water, and he smiled when Stiles approached him. “Do you want to take my rental or your FedMobile? Nice ride by the way.”

“FedMobile?” Stiles snorted, then nodded. “We can take mine. I like having all my shit nearby.”

Derek capped his water and moved over to the SUV, waiting for Stiles to unlock, then swung into the passenger side.

“It doesn’t smell that much like smoke,” commented Derek and Stiles glared at him briefly. “I keep the windows open and I have a special vent to suck the smoke out, since my superiors seem to share your basic opinion of my personal health habits. And you already made your one allotted comment earlier, remember?”

“I made a personal comment earlier. This is an observation,” replied Derek, and took a big swig of water. “In fact, it was a positive comment, even, so shut it.”

“Shut it? SHUT IT? I should throw your wolfy ass out of my sweet Fed ride right this minute and make you walk to the office,” Stiles threatened, and Derek shrugged. “I bet I’d still get there first. Fuck, I could skip and get there before you.”

“What the hell is this new sassy shit, huh? Sassywolf,” grumbled Stiles, but he was smiling inside, cause okay, this was much more like them, as much of a them as there had ever been, while Derek openly smirked and leaned back as Stiles rolled out of the Kozy Komfort and headed into what was called town, but was basically a rut in the road; a post office, a hardware ,basic Mom and Pop diner. A combined primary/middle/high school. The Sheriff’s office was, by far, the largest and newest building in town, and Stiles pulled into a spot in front and reached for his bag in the back. “So, the people we’re dealing with are my crime scene tech, Rory - smart as hell, looks like he’s in middle school. Don’t let that fool you. The local Sheriff, Dennis Parsons - there are a shit ton of Parsons around here. His sister is the principal at the combined school, his older brother is a State Representative, his dad is the retired Sheriff, who’s consulting here, so it’s a clusterfuck. The father was a giant asshole when I showed up at the first murder scene - told me it was his site, he didn’t need the fucking Feds, the FBI was overstepping its reach, all that predictable bullshit. He was still hostile at the second scene, and by the third, he was like, “It’s all you, Fox Mulder,” and stepped way back. At least he knows when he’s out of his league.” Stiles paused, then shrugged. “That’s more than I expected in this town.”

“Yeah, well, we’re pretty deep into coal mining territory here and they’re not known for their progressiveness,” said Derek, and slipped off his sunglasses. “The fact that they’re listening to you at all means they’re scared shitless.”

They walked into the building; two men, one in an FBI jacket, dark pants, white shirt and tie, and one in a well-worn black leather jacket, dark jeans and boots. Neither one of them looked like they would take any shit, and that assumption would be correct. Derek’s police badge hung around his neck on a gold chain, inside his shirt, comforting against his skin, while Stiles’ FBI badge rested in his shirt pocket, against his heart. It was fitting.

*~*

The meeting room was large, well lit, fragrant with coffee smells, and clean; Stiles shook Sheriff Parsons Sr. and Jr.’s hand, introducing them to Derek, who shook hands and nodded, all very official. They didn’t question his credentials, which only reinforced to Derek that they were, in fact, feeling helpless in the face of this kind of brutality.

Stiles went to the whiteboard - his favorite spot - and started writing, from memory, the facts of the case so far. He wrote rapidly in block letters, and Derek was reminded of his “murder board” in his room so long ago. All that was missing was the colored string.

The others were watching, and another young man had slipped in a moment or two after them and was setting up a laptop to project on the wall beside the white board. It was obvious that he and Stiles had worked together before - this must be Rory. Derek wouldn’t have suspected this kid had cleared puberty yet if Stiles hadn’t warned him. 

For a moment, he felt incredibly old. Not wise, no, just old.

“All right, gentlemen,” said Stiles, turning from the board, and Derek was struck again by the fact that Stiles was now a grown, confident man, at the top of his game, and he could only sit back and watch the show. “These are brief summaries of the first three murders; I say first because I’m confident there will be more. The fourth murder is generally when a serial killer will start to refine their pattern, so once we see that we can look at the others with fresh eyes.”

“A serial killer?” This from Parsons Sr. “Are you sure?”

Viable question. “I’m thinking so,” said Stiles, “for a few reasons. They are all in the same area. The victims have general similarities, age, sex, race, vocation. They’re increasingly frequent; serial killers often start killing more frequently as they get more experienced, cockier, and every kill is a bigger high than the last - they chase that high like a drug addict. Soon, they’ll develop their signature, and that will be the key to cracking them.”

“So, what do we do in the meantime?” said one of the deputies. “Sit here with our thumbs up our asses and wait? Tell people, “Sorry, FBI man says we have to wait for more killing, so just sit tight?”

Stiles twirled the marker between his fingers and Derek could smell the frustration, the desire to snap back at the deputy, and his desperate need for nicotine wafting off him, but Stiles’ face was expressionless. “By all means, deputy, if you have leads or some potential suspects in mind, I am all ears. You have the knowledge of the people in town, the physical area surrounding the murder sites, the family histories, so you have the advantage here,” he said. “So, let’s hear your ideas.”

The deputy flushed. “I don’t know who the hell did this sick shit, but I don’t think we should be sitting here just jawing about it.”

“I’m sorry, my mental telepathy is rusty, so I’m forced to use words,” replied Stiles calmly, and Derek was making a mental bet with himself as to how long before Stiles called that fucking idiot a, well, fucking idiot. He gave him 40 seconds, give, or take.

The deputy was now completely red-faced. Stiles stared him down. “If you don’t have anything to offer to counter my information, how about not saying anything until you do?”

This Stiles was cold, intense, took no shit. There was no sign of the stammering, windmill-armed, voluble boy Derek had known in this man, in this moment. In truth, he was both scary and somehow wonderful, and Derek wondered if he, himself, had ever looked this way to a teenage Mieczyslaw Stilinski.

“Shut your trap, Hopper,” said Parsons Jr. “The Feds are here because we don’t know jack shit, and they’ve seen this kind of hell before. Sorry, Agent - he’s new.”

“It’s fine, Sheriff - all snappiness aside, I welcome anything you all can offer, as I’ve said before. You all have a huge wealth of knowledge about the way this town works - sure, I can read stats, but you know the people, the families, the grudges, the relationships. You have information you probably don’t even realize you have, so anything, anything you can throw out here will help.”

He turned back to the board. “The first victim is Stevenson Starcher,” he said. “25, white male, single, girlfriend, no children. Survived by parents and grandparents, two aunts. No known substance problems, although he did like to drink, as evidenced by the autopsy report on his liver. Employed by Starcher and Son hardware. Victim was found in a hunting cabin by his father, Stevenson Starcher III. Manner of death appeared to be an animal attack at first glance, but autopsy results show that the dismemberment and disembowelment was completed with human intelligence and human weapons, a large knife, maybe a Bowie knife. This is also the one and only time a gun was used so far, which tells me the murderer was unsure of their ability to kill them by stabbing. The gun was insurance.”

He nodded at Rory, who brought up a picture of the scene - he’d cleaned and enhanced the Polaroids and they were sickeningly clear now; Stiles didn’t blink, nor did Rory, but the Sheriffs and deputies looked green. “Jesus,” breathed the second one, who had been quiet till now. “Didn’t look that bad at the time.”

“Like you’d know - you took one look and lost your lunch on the porch,” said Parsons Jr. “But damn, your computer program worked that up right slick as shit, didn’t it?”

“It did indeed. Rory is the best,” said Stiles. “I know these are disturbing to look at, trust me, and worse because you all knew Stevenson, but tell me if anything stands out to you in this scene if you can. Look beyond the gore.”

Rory slide showed the pictures and Stiles made note of all that was said, plus his personal notes, his mental notes, which he would add to his log tonight. He finally looked over at Derek. “Lieutenant Hale, do you have any thoughts?”

How official, thought Derek who’d almost expected, “Hey Sourwolf, speak up!”

“I do, actually. Can you scroll back to slide #2?”

Rory did so, and Derek stood, moving over to the screen, Stiles stepping aside. “In looking at this, I can see the animal attack theory, as the dismemberment seems random and the tears are not clean. But there are elements of both human and animal here.”

Stiles shot him a look, and Parsons Sr. spoke up. “You think it was a murder and then an animal finished him off? The door was broken, and animals are a lot smarter than we think, especially if they smell fresh meat.”

“Anything is possible, but the way the limbs were initially damaged is odd, compared to the chew marks and bite marks.” 

“You a hunter?” asked a deputy, and Stiles bit back a bitter laugh, while Derek shook his head. “No, but I know several quite well and I’m familiar with how kills are usually disposed of. This seems off.”

“You FBI too?”

“No, I’m just consulting. I worked a case with some similar characteristics a couple years back, and Agent Stilinski thought I might be of help.”

This was news to Stiles, unless the Argents' wholesale slaughter in good old Beacon Hills counted as a case. There had been a lot of mangled limbs then, too. His professional expression didn’t change, though, and he let Derek look things over, asking Rory to move forward slowly from the start of the slides. Since Derek was inspecting, Stiles allowed himself to look down for a moment, noting, almost academically, that the nicotine stain on his right index finger was getting more noticeable.

A second later, he felt a shift in Derek’s tension, one he knew well, and automatically moved to half-shield Derek’s face from the others. Derek was staring at the fourth slide, his fingers moving up to crawl across the wound, and when Stiles stepped closer, he turned … his eyes were glowing bright, beta blue.

“Derek,” hissed Stiles. “Eyes.”

Derek didn’t even blink for a moment, until Stiles clamped his hand around his forearm; the grip was surprisingly strong and hard. Only when he squeezed did Derek blink and the blue recede - he stared back at Stiles, who nodded almost imperceptibly, then let go and stepped back. Rory was watching this interaction intently, as was the older Sheriff. “You okay there, boys?”

“Derek’s an intense dude,” said Stiles easily, covering them both. “He’s like McGruff the Crime Dog,” he added, taking pleasure in the outright glare Derek was giving him, though his back was still turned to the room. “And there’s for sure some similarities to the case we worked before.”

It took a second for Derek to be able to speak. “There are, and I’d like to look at the actual photos more closely later.”

“Easily done. You did just get into town today and the rest of us have been living with this for almost three weeks now,” said Stiles, once again taking charge. “All right, the second victim, is Magnus Munson, who is a cousin to the Starchers, I’m told.”

“Third cousin,” supplied Parsons Jr. “He lived on the same road, down a way, but along the same route.”

Stiles nodded. “These two murders were in close proximity, though the third was nearly across town.”

“That’s only about a mile and a half,” said the sullen Deputy. “Might as well be in the backyard.”

God, Stiles wanted to punch this asshole and if he could possibly get away with it, he would. And the dude would not be getting up quickly if he did. “Well, Bartley isn’t exactly expansive,” he replied, and took a breath. “Regardless, Munson was found by his employer after he didn’t report to work as the school janitor, and the employer immediately called it in. This crime scene was much more cleanly handled, so I thank you for that.” 

These photos were even more disturbing, since they had been taken with an actual digital camera, Parsons Jr.’s birthday gift from his wife - he liked photographing birds and wildlife and was actually pretty decent. His camera had never been meant for this, but Stiles was grateful. “I appreciate all the angles you captured, Sheriff,” he said. “As unpleasant as this was for you, you took high quality shots that helped refine my thoughts about the manner of death and weapons used. I’m grateful, thank you.”

Parsons looked surprised and Stiles surmised that this was a man who did not often receive praise, most likely stood in the shadow of his father, a 40-year law enforcement veteran and was ordered about by his wife at home. His posture, his tendency to slump, to end his sentences with an implied question all shouted “Junior,” to him in every way. Stiles wasn’t here to cheerlead but he was fairly sure this guy had more to offer than he was being allowed to.

There was momentary silence while the shots were displayed, and while Stiles knew the next ones were worse - the scenes grew gorier and messier - he appreciated how hard it was to see your neighbors, or worse, friends, mauled and lifeless. He appreciated it more than anyone, save Derek, knew, and his eyes flickered over to Derek’s for a moment and saw that he felt the same. Well, probably the same. Derek had always been frustratingly hard to read and Stiles thought back to the personality profile he’d worked up for the wolf back in school. Authority issues, abandonment issues, patriarchal guilt, Messiah complex. He still thought it fit.

“It was my pleasure,” said the Sheriff, then thought better of it. “Well, not quite, but glad the pictures are clear.”

“They are, and I appreciate it,” said Stiles, and smiled, which he hadn’t done this far. He clicked to the third murder, again photographed by the Sheriff, again with good quality prints. “The third one is Darien Selben. He had moved to Bartley recently and worked for the town as a maintenance man, if I understand correctly. He was a bit older than the others, mid-thirties, and as far as is known, has no immediate familial connection to the town or the general area. While not a drifter, he is different from the first two in that he was not related to anyone we have found thus far, and he was a newcomer. My initial thought was that the family connection was a key, that this might be what they call a “family annihilator,” but that pattern has been broken.”

He clicked the pictures off, to everyone’s relief, and leaned against the table where his papers were spread out. “So, if you agree that this has the look of a series of killings by the same person, I can share what I know about serial murderers.

Head nods all around, and Stiles flexed his fingers, cracking them unintentionally. “So, the first kills are part ‘Can I really do this? Can I get away with this?’ They’re carefully planned, yet tend to be a little sloppy, because no matter how much they prepare, there’s always the potential for things to go sideways - for people to come home unexpectedly, or to fight back, or for the weapon to not work well. Most killers do dry runs, think obsessively about their plans, yet something will always go wrong. They note all that went wrong and plan better next time. The next time is cleaner, the third even cleaner than that; they’re learning to deal with the unexpected. During the third kill, they develop a signature, or refine it. After that, they invariably use their own twist every time. But at the same time, after a certain number of kills, they start to break down, get sloppy. Maybe the enormity of what they’ve done hits them. Maybe their mental issues turn to full blown psychosis. Maybe they’re feeling heat from law enforcement. There can be any number of reasons, but whatever the cause, two things start to happen; the previously mentioned slippage in their processes and the frequency of their kills.”

Stiles reached for his bottle of water. “The killings will also become more frequent as his or her murderous needs grow.”

“You think this killer could be female?” asked Parsons Sr. “Never heard of a woman doing such gory shit.”

“In theory, it could be. Reasonably, I don’t think so. Historically and statistically, women usually kill with poison or with guns. Strangling, stabbing, certainly dismemberment is more of a man’s game. Not to be a sexist asshole here but these kinds of killings require a certain amount of strength. Not saying a female couldn’t be strong as hell and angry enough to do this – the available stats are just against it.”

Ugh, he needed nicotine so much. He’d be much more patient with his favorite prop in hand. He glanced over at Derek, who was deep in thought, if the furrowed brow was any indication. Stiles was rather proud of himself for his non-reaction to the blue beta eyes - he had schooled much of the impetuous reactions out of himself, and honestly, his only thought when he’d seen those eyes was “Oh fuck.” Because he knew Derek would not jump to an assumption of supernatural fuckery, and Stiles had thought - hoped - those days were behind him.

He still wasn’t sure if he was okay with Derek being here at all, but he wasn’t going to dismiss a potential resource out of hand. He just wondered why that resource had to be Derek. If his dad was going to send a supernatural law enforcement officer, why not Parrish? Why not a hellhound with a great smile, charming personality and killer physique?

Well, probably because said hellhound was now married to a sweet girl who was a Wiccan practitioner and currently six months pregnant with a baby witch hound, or however that worked.

Also, he was willing to bet that Derek still had a killer physique. Not that Stiles cared, because he didn’t. He had Marcy, and she was all he needed and wanted, and he still couldn’t believe she loved him. The world was a strange place, indeed.

He shook himself mentally. “So those are our three victims so far. Two related, one not. All blue- collar jobs …”

“Ain’t no other kind in Bartley,” said the deputy, apparently deciding it was safe to speak again. “Closest we go to white collar would probably be the principal and the Mayor.”

“I haven’t been able to get ahold of the Mayor,” said Stiles. “Any of you have a pipeline?”

“Nah, his ma is dying down in Norfolk,” said Parsons Sr. “He’s down there in the hospital with ‘er.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Stiles, who was. He remembered his mother’s death all too clearly. “Do you think he’d contribute anything that you three don’t already know?”

Head shakes all around. “He’s a weird one, doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. If he saw these pics, his head would be in the trashcan in the hallway.”

“Understood,” sighed Stiles. “All right then. Let’s brainstorm. Who might be next? Why? Who holds a grudge against any of these men?”

An hour and a half later, they had about what they’d started out with, except Stiles had the name and number of a local lady who was a genealogist. Or rather, she was ancient and knew everything about everything. Stiles reflected that he should have started with her and dispensed with this whole meeting, but hey, he had to at least appear to be working with them.

Derek had been mostly quiet, as he was the newcomer here, but spent his time watching Stiles work the lawmen - he was exceptionally good at drawing out reactions and exploring theories, even though Derek could tell he was tired and more than a little frustrated with the lack of ideas. He still had trouble reconciling this calm, unruffled man with the emotionally charged teenager he’d known. It was going to take a while for him to meld the two disparate images in his head.

When the meeting broke up, Stiles made sure everyone had his contact information and reminded them again that he wasn’t here to step on toes, only to help protect the people of the town. Whether that sank in or not, he didn’t know - he could only hope.

He and Derek met back at his SUV, Stiles lighting up immediately, and leaning against the passenger side door, rubbing his face with his free hand. “Jesus, that was brutal,” he said. “All I wanted was ideas and impressions and you’d think I was trying to steal their badges. For fuck’s sakes, they have no idea what they’re up against. None.”

Derek ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right, they don’t. We need to go talk to that lady first thing tomorrow morning, Stiles. Her knowledge of the town and its history is going to be the key to all of this.”

“Is that what your wolf senses are telling you?” This came out far snappier than he’d planned, and he sighed. “I’m sorry. This was a weird, gross enough situation and now I’m a little off-kilter.”

“Because of me,” said Derek, knowing it was true. “I’m sorry Stiles, you have to know that wasn’t my intention.”

A pause. “Do you want me to go back to Beacon Hills? I don’t want to throw you off your game or fuck you up in any way.”

Stiles took a deep drag, holding in smoke for a long moment before exhaling. “I ... no. You’ve come all this way, you had a visceral reaction to the pics, which gives this case a new slant and my supernatural Spidey sense has been buried for a lot of years. If you think this whole thing has that aspect to it, then I need you.”

That wasn’t what Derek had asked - there was a difference between want and need, but he let it go.

He wondered if Stiles ever thought of the last days of the Hunter Wars, when they’d reunited with the pack to take out Gerard and Kate Argent and their little army for good. He wondered if Stiles thought about the moments during the FBI raid when he’d had to carry a not-yet-cool Stiles out of the fray, and when he’d let him down, how Stiles had clung to him, holding onto him for long moments, both of their hearts hammering in their chests, and how when he’d set him down on the hood of some random car - with surprising reluctance on his part - Stiles had grabbed his shirt, pulled him in and kissed him. Hard. And he’d not resisted, had kissed him back, both grimy, sweaty, scared.

He blinked when he realized Stiles was speaking to him and tried to catch up. “I’m pretty certain there is a supernatural aspect to it,” he said. “There was something about the way the bodies were arranged that smelled odd.”

“I didn’t realize Rory had made the pictures scratch and sniff. He is good, that boy.” Stiles tossed his spent cigarette into a trashcan. “You smelled it.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Well then.” Stiles looked at his watch. “6.30 PM. I’m afraid this place has no nightlife and the few places there are to eat close by 8, so if you want to grab dinner, we should go now. The Kozy Komfort is serviceable, but they’ve never heard of room service. They do have a couple of streaming services though - very progressive of them.”

Derek smiled. “Are you inviting me to dinner?”

That earned him a smirk. “Seems like the least I could do for a distinguished visiting consultant. You have a choice of a diner, a coffee shop, or the ever-popular Golden Arches. I’d spot you anything on the dollar menu.”

“Jesus, spoil me, why don’t you? How about the diner?”

“Good choice. Their meatloaf is to die for, and I’m not kidding. I don’t know what they put in it, and don’t wanna but it’s great, with real mashed potatoes and fresh veggies as a side.”

Derek raised a brow. “Stiles Stilinski eating vegetables that aren’t curly and golden brown? No fucking way.”

“Hey, HEY. I always ate my veggies. My father, on the other hand, only eats onions, and only if they’re deep fried.” He gave Derek a hard look and Derek held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Sides of veggies, all of them. Go from here?”

“Better, yeah. You don’t need to go back to the motel for anything, do you?”

“Nope, all set.” Derek climbed into the passenger seat, strapping himself in. “Remember the first time I rode in your Jeep?” 

“I do,” replied Stiles. “I dragged your furry ass into Roscoe because you collapsed in the school parking lot and I was being a good Samaritan. You weren’t even appreciative of my largesse.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine, I wasn’t polite, but to be fair, I was being slowly poisoned to death and wasn’t in the mood for niceties.”

“When were you ever in the mood for niceties? Exactly never, is when.”

Stiles pulled out into the nearly deserted street, and Derek smiled to himself; Stiles was right, he’d been a huge prick for a long time, and Stiles had borne the brunt of his bluntness, his sarcasm, his stand-offish ways. But only because Stiles had never let off prodding him and pushing him and trying to psychoanalyze him, and it had pissed him off, until it hadn’t. Until he realized that Stiles really cared about him, but by then, so much else had happened.

The town was small, so the drive was short, and what seemed like less than a couple of minutes later, Stiles was pulling into Deet’s Diner, a ramshackle building that looked like it had seen better days. But then again, so did the entire town.

“Are you sure the Department of Health has cleared this place?” asked Derek doubtfully, and Stiles shrugged. “What’s a little ptomaine amongst friends?”

In the diner, Stiles was greeted with a hearty, “Hullo Agent,” said by an older man from behind the grill. “Meatloaf Monday, am I right?”

Stiles grinned. “Yessir. What’s the veggie of the day?”

“Sautéed broccoli, red pepper, onion and zucchini in lemon and oil.”

“Well, there’s my order,” said Stiles, sliding into one of the four booths. “Lieutenant Hale?”

“Another Fed?” The cook/owner/dishwasher/whatever else eyed Derek and Derek shook his head. “Nope, just a regular cop. And that meal sounds delicious, so two, please.”

“You got it,” said Deet. “You here about the murders too?”

“Just assisting, if I can,” replied Derek, taking a seat opposite Stiles; they were brought iced sweet tea without being asked, but Derek didn’t complain. When in Rome and all that …

“Those murders have shaken folks up,” said Deet. “I mean, there’s killing around here, but it’s usually liquored up family members or property disputes. So-and-so shoots his cousin, his uncle, his brother. Maybe a woman gets fed up with being slapped around and unloads a huntin’ rifle clip on her husband. Stuff like that, understandable and all. Not good, but understandable. But this stuff …”

He shook his gray head. “This is real bad news.”

Stiles was sipping his tea, while Derek asked. “Do you know any of the victims?”

“Knew ‘em all. This is a little town, Lieutenant. Hell, we knew all about the Agent as soon as he came to town. Went on the internet, found out he’s a real big shot. Pissed the cops off but that’s cause they’re morons, the whole lot of them. Pool the whole group, you might have half a brain.”

A few minutes later, he brought over heaping plates of food, went back to the kitchen, and returned with the large sides and a basket of rolls. “Missus Deet made them this mornin’,” he said, and Stiles eyed them with delight. “Tell her if she wants a second husband, I’m available.”

“Hell, she don’t even want her first husband,” Deet grumbled, and Derek laughed and reached for one; it smelled amazing and he realized he was starving. Stiles was already eating like he was on fire, much to the approval of the owner.

Deet went back to his kitchen and Stiles glanced over at him and grinned. “He’s the best part of this place, trust me. I’ve learned more from him than anyone else so far.”

“Like the fact that you’re an internet celebrity in some circles,” said Derek, and sighed over the mashed potatoes, because they tasted like his mom’s recipe from forever ago. “I mean, if they read the same articles I did.”

“Yeah, some celebrity. I’m just your average coffee-swilling, chain-smoking, can-still-run-six-miles Fed,” said Stiles. “We’re a dime a dozen.”

“I can’t imagine you running, unless it’s away from a big bad,” said Derek, and Stiles set down his fork. “You know, it’s been nine fucking years, Derek. I’m not the little kid you could shit all over, so you should get that through your thick head now.”

Derek looked up, startled at the tone. “I didn’t mean anything by that, I ....”

“You still think I’m a coward because I didn’t take the bite and I wasn’t one of you. But you and the pack would have been fucked without me. Fucked with a capital Fuck. I came up with the plans. I came up with the strategies, Lydia and me. You and Scott, Liam, Malia - and sometimes Peter, when he could be bothered - were the brawn. We were the brains. You guys never respected that, ever.”

Stiles paused, took a deep breath. “I don’t run away from the big bad anymore,” he finished, tone even. “I am the big bad now, and no one fucks with me.”

He went back to eating, and Derek sat there for a long moment; his first instinct, still, was to snap back and then leave, with a muttered “Fuck this shit.” It might always be his go-to move, but he’d found through hard trial and error that it wasn’t effective, at all, and made him look like an asshole. Not like he needed help in that area anyway. He took a breath, exhaled.

“Stiles,” he said softly. “I never, ever thought you were a coward, and I am really sorry that I made you feel that way. I valued you then, and now, as an important human part of the pack. I know how smart you are. I know that we would have been absolutely screwed without you and Lydia and I know I rarely, if ever, showed that I appreciated you, until it was pretty much too late. I wasn’t always a good guy back then; I’m not always one now, but I’ve learned a little self-control over the years. My wolf control was always great - my human control, not so much. I let my own pain and anger and guilt color every damn thing in my life. I pushed you away when you wanted to help. I dismissed and demeaned you, mostly because you wouldn’t let up and it made me uncomfortable. I was a dick and I am so sorry.”

He licked his lips. “I didn’t come here to …” He paused. “Judge you. Imply you didn’t know your stuff. You do. You’re fucking amazing and brilliant, and when I read about all you’ve done and accomplished? I was fucking proud, Stiles. Proud of you, your career, your success. You did everything to help me when I needed it. All I’m here to do is to help you if I possibly can.”

He reached for his tea, while Stiles, who didn’t think he’d ever heard that many words in a row from Derek at the same time, stared. He opened his mouth; found he didn’t know what to say. Finally, after what seemed like four to six long days, he managed, “Thank you, Derek.”

Derek nodded, and when Deet came to refill their tea, he excused himself to use the restroom, a surprisingly clean little room with a sturdy lock.

He splashed his face with icy cold water, rubbing it through his beard and hair, doing a little deep breathing, before using the facilities and washing his hands again. He had needed these few minutes and thought Stiles might too.

He was right. When Derek got up to go to the bathroom, and the cook had left their table to greet some other patrons, he’d set his fork down and pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. Jesus Christ, that little soliloquy from Derek had been the last thing in the world he had ever expected to hear from the werewolf. He had expected Derek to snarl at him or be sarcastic, and instead, he had basically said all the things Stiles had always wished he’d say, plus a few more now, based on time.

Well, almost all the things; the last thing Stiles had ever wanted to hear him say would never be said, and it was for the best, right? The ship had sailed, they’d both grown up and followed their own path. He’d never asked his father if Derek had met anyone, if he was dating, and it wasn’t because he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to know. That way, he couldn’t dwell on it endlessly to his own detriment. And he was with Marcy, who was Lydia Martin-plus; smart as hell, gorgeous, sexy, confident, on the rise professionally, and also kind, funny and loving. He knew he’d hit the jackpot with her and never stopped remembering that. And with that knowledge, he’d had to set Derek and those last nights aside, storing them in a box in his brain, and forgetting the combination to the lock.

And then the fucker had shown up here, in Stiles’ space, still with that goddamn leather jacket and that smile, made all the better by how rare it was. God, Stiles hated him.

Except he didn’t.

He was still staring at his near-empty plate when Derek returned with damp hair and beard (unfair as hell) and sat back down. “This was outstanding,” he said, eating the last of his roll. “I would gain 20 pounds if I was here too long.”

“You haven’t seen the dessert list yet,” said Stiles, surprised that his voice sounded so normal. “You might wanna budget for another 10 pounds based on the strawberry shortcake alone.”

Derek groaned. “Well, I’ll plan on a five-mile run at dawn every day then.”

“And with that, you’ll circle the town twice,” Stiles said dryly. “But hey, never know what your elf eyes might spy, Derekolas.”

Derek snorted, and gave him that damn bunny smile. “I have about three feet less hair than Legolas, but sure, I’ll keep an eye, ear and nose out.”

Deet came over to clear their plates. “Desserts, gents?”

“Two shortcakes,” said Stiles. “All the whipped cream you have.”

Derek bit back a comment about whipped cream, but Stiles smirked at him and Deet winked before taking their plates back. 

Stiles pushed a hand through his hair absently, forgot briefly that he’d just had it cut two days ago, and flexed his fingers instead; Derek grinned at him. "Rocking the midway between the freshman buzz and your senior year mane.”

“Yeah, pretty much. The buzz would be practical as hell, but I look like a kid with it, sadly, so I had to find a happy medium. You look the same though - well, giant beard notwithstanding. You could hide snacks in there.”

“Who says I don’t?” replied Derek and smiled again.” For all you know, I could have a whole tin of Altoids stashed in here.”

Stiles laughed, surprising himself, and then shook his head. “I can’t get over this conversational, vaguely light-hearted Derek. I mean … wow.”

“I know. No one else can either. And honestly, I have all of you, and your Dad and Parrish to thank. All of you for pushing me, and then your Dad for believing in me and wanting me to come home and work with him, and Parrish, cause well, it’s nice to have another supernatural sort around. Weird stuff doesn’t often happen anymore, but at least he gets it when he does.”

Stiles sat back. “This is blowing my mind. All of this,” he added, waving a hand at him. “All this speech and whatnot. I still can’t believe you work with Dad, but he tells me that you’re brilliant at what you do, that you’re a credit to the department, and that you eat junk food with him with no judgement, so you’re his favorite kid now.”

Derek scoffed. “Never. You’re his favorite person in the world. Then Natalie, then maybe the rest of us. He’s so proud of you, honestly. Every time you pull some new, amazing shit off, he’s like “Yeah, that’s my boy,” and the smile will not leave his face for days. He really loves you.”

Shit. Stiles took a breath. “I really love him too and I miss him. I want to take Marcy home to Beacon Hills someday so she can see where it all happened.”

Ah, Marcy. “Does she know about us, and the …”

“Nemeton, Hunter Wars, alpha packs, all that? Yeah, I told her. She thought I was drunk at first, or just pulling her leg, but nope. She’s met Lydia and Lyd backed me up. She and her guy met us in DC on a flight layover and we had lunch. Still took Marcy a while to fully grasp it, but now she’s a believer. She actually “met” Peter on FaceTime one day, thought he was handsome as hell, and charming. I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly popped out.”

Their desserts came and Derek was momentarily stunned at the size of the dish and the amount of whipped cream, Jesus God. Then he gaped. “She’s met Peter? On FaceTime? You talk to that bastard?”

Stiles blinked. “On occasion, yeah. Peter and I have a weird bond, probably due to the whole Ghost Rider, disappearing-from-everyone’s-memories debacle. He did kind of save my netherworld-bound ass, you know. Don’t you talk to him?”

“Not if I don’t have to,” grumbled Derek, and Stiles laughed again, the laugh natural, not forced. “He’s still a dick, but he laid it on thick for Marcy and she loved him, despite all my warnings. He wants to take us out for a fancy-ass dinner when we visit. He popped out the claws, fangs and glowing eyes, the show-off.”

Derek shook his head and dove into his dessert, which was enough to make him see God, processing that yeah, “Marcy” was real, she knew about them, and she’d met Peter, of all bloody people. Peter! And thought he was charming. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, cause most psychopaths were.

There was relative silence as they both demolished their food, and Stiles paid the bill, declining coffee, because he didn’t sleep anyway, and Derek was not that into caffeine, the weirdo. They left, thanking Deet, and Derek looked up at the shockingly bright sky, identifying constellations, while Stiles smoked and checked his phone, quickly texting his lady, fingers flying over the surface of the phone. Derek sucked at texting and generally didn’t bother, other than he had texted John to let him know he was there, and then again to assure him that Stiles was upright, breathing and hadn’t killed him on sight.

“Cassiopeia,” said a voice beside him, and a long finger pointed at a group of stars. “That’s one of the only things I like about out here. No smog, no industrial waste since the coal mines were closed, and the sky looks like you could plunge your hand into it and grab a handful of stars.”

“It’s beautiful,” agreed Derek. “Which somehow almost makes those photos worse.”

“Yeah, I agree,” replied Stiles, popping cinnamon gum into his mouth. “Thank fuck Parsons used his digital Nikon though, cause those first pics with the Instamatic? I thought Rory was gonna cry when he saw the quality of those.”

“He looks ten,” noted Derek. “He looks like he’s a middle school intern.”

“Yeah, but damned if he’s not literally the smartest person ever. I’m no slouch, but I bow to him. Without his expertise in imagery and his analytical skills, I’d be in much worse shape out here.”

“Should we have brought him to dinner? I didn’t even think to ask.”

“Nah, he would have said no. He games, shockingly enough, so he buys a couple of sandwiches and chips and holes up in his room at night, playing Red Dead Redemption. He would have respectfully declined. Besides, as he said to me, “You two have history, I’d feel weird sitting there.”

“History?” A black brow shot up. “What history does he know of?”

“I didn’t think he knew of any, but he claims we have a “vibe,” shrugged Stiles. “He’s not wrong. I felt you get wolfy and knew to hide your eyes and how to snap you out of it before your claws popped. Rory doesn’t miss a damn thing.”

Derek thought about that on the short ride home, and when they arrived at the Kozy Komfort, he found he wasn’t sure what to say. “What’s your routine? I don’t want to interrupt it.”

Stiles was locking up his ride and looked over at him. “Well, usually I review crime scene photos and transcribe my impressions of meetings and such into my personal journal. Then I come outside and sit outside my room, smoke too many cigarettes, abuse my body with more caffeine, call Marcy, apologize for not being around more, tell her I don’t deserve her, she tells me I do, and she loves me, and then I take a shower and angry masturbate.”

Stiles had never had filters and that had not changed. Derek listened to this, and then blinked before cracking up laughing. “Sounds like a full night, honestly.”

“It kind of is.” Stiles grinned at him. “Let me guess. You come home, go for a run for about 27 miles - partly you and partly wolf - and then come home and take a cold shower, eat something healthy and watch PBS.”

Derek folded his arms. “How boring do you think I am?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

“Asshole,” said Derek pleasantly. “I do go for a run, yeah. And when I come home, I slide into a tub full of lavender and chamomile bubbles and listen to music for a while. Then I eat something - a lot of something, cause metabolism - wrap up in my velvet robe and watch ancient sitcoms like “Welcome Back Kotter,” and “Barney Miller” on TV Land, and drink a few microbrews. Then I eventually get my ass to bed, and pop up at 5 AM, fresh as hell.”

Stiles was momentarily speechless. Only momentarily, though. “Chamomile and lavender? Are you fucking kidding me? Bubbles? _Sitcoms_?”

He paused. “And a _velvet_ robe? Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“Yes, bubbles and sitcoms. What did you think I did? 500 pushups, some remedial flogging and went to sleep on the cold, hard floor?”

“Yes!”

“You would be wrong, sir.” A smile from within the beard. “I sleep on 500 thread count sheets, even and a down comforter. With pillow shams.”

Stiles gawked, then laughed out loud. “Well, check your ass, Lieutenant. I stand corrected.” 

Derek leaned against the SUV. “How does this routine differ from your one at home?”

“Well, at home, after I’ve been outside smoking too much, Marcy comes out, scolds me, tells me I could put my mouth to better use, I go in, brush my teeth, shower and there is no angry masturbation because we …”

“Got it,” interjected Derek. “Got it. Good. Sex is good. Yes.”

“It is,” nodded Stiles. “Really good. You getting any lately?”

Oh Jesus. “Let’s just say you are not alone in your shower activities.”

“Ah, really? Damn, Derek, you look like that and you’re still a monk?” Ha, maybe life was fairer than Stiles had previously thought.

“I was never a monk,” said Derek defensively. “I just didn’t talk about it. You guys were teenagers, I was older, so didn’t feel the need to broadcast my sex life.”

Stiles eyed him. “You had a sex life? I mean, Braeden, yeah, but …”

“In nine years, I have managed to find people to have sex with, yes. Some once, some many times, some female, some male. Okay?”

“Yeah, fuck, okay but … wow.” Stiles could not process. “Well then. Uhm, you did say you wanted to take a second look at those photos? It’s only a little past eight.”

Derek hadn’t been sure how Stiles would react to that information, and was not surprised when he deflected, but he was relieved, he couldn’t lie. He didn’t think this was the time to get into the way-back machine and try to figure out their past. It had lain there quietly for nine years - it could last a few more weeks.

Stiles let him into his room, which was exactly like his, except for the electronic equipment; Stiles deactivated a portable alarm and went through a complicated series of passwords and code to access his own personal database, then pulled off his jacket again and yanked off the tie.

Derek shrugged out of his jacket, stretched and rubbed his eyes before sitting down in front of the slideshow - Stiles pulled up the bench from the end of the bed to sit next to him, so he could watch Derek’s eyes.

Derek studied each crime scene photo from the first one, enlarging it and zooming in with an expertise that surprised Stiles, as Derek had been known to throw flip phones through windows and growl over technology in the past, but police work and all, he supposed. Throughout, his eyes glowed, starting with the first scene and a low growl emitted when he analyzed the third series of photos.

“Sexy,” murmured Stiles, just to break the moment. “You smooth wolf, you.”

Derek sat back, rubbed his chin. “I’m a sex machine, all right. And you have a werewolf killer.”

There was a long pause. “Of course, I do, because life has been too normal for too long. How can you tell? Show me what you see.”

Stiles hitched closer and Derek moved so they both had the same angle, only inches apart.

“The initial attack was carried out with conventional human weapons; You figured a bowie knife, a cleaver, even an axe. So that’s strength, as you said. Unfortunately, that does mean a male or female wolf, ‘cause Laura was that strong, Malia is that strong, etc. So, it was a blunt force trauma to the back of the head to knock them out, then multiple cuts and stab wounds, some dismemberment. All that is bad enough, but this, here?”

Derek enlarged a shot of an arm, the skin flopping raggedly around muscle. “That’s chewing. That’s biting and tearing. That’s frenzy.”

“Frenzy. Jesus Christ, I didn’t even think of that, shit!” Stiles leaned back and put his hands over his face. “Frenzy. Fucking _fuck_ ”

Ah, there was the Stiles he remembered. “No reason you would. The way the scenes were set up? Ramshackle houses, doors and windows left open; you have wolves, bobcats, coyotes, and mountain lions in these places. They smell a fresh kill, of course they’re going to come and chow down. The killer depended on that. He or she won’t kill in an apartment or motel or condo or any place enclosed. Only places near woods or otherwise removed, where the animal element can be blamed. And the first one, easy to determine COD as an animal attack, ‘cause they were sloppy like you said. But the second one blew that thought away, because of the entrails. The beginning of a signature. Brutality plus signature. This is personal.”

Derek leaned back too. “I know you’ve looked into familial connections, but now we have to look for pack connections. It can’t hurt. You should definitely talk to the genealogist tomorrow, and then …”

“We” should,” said Stiles. “You didn’t haul your ass all the way across the country to not work this case with me, Hale. You’re here, I’m gonna work you hard.”

Derek smiled. “We”, yes. And good, that’s why I’m here and I want to find this person too. Cause no matter your reason, senseless, bloody slaughter of humans is not something that can be let slide. No fucking way.”

“No, it can’t.” Stiles’ voice was serious, cold. “I spend my life making sure shit like this doesn’t slide, and I’m not about to stop now. I don’t give a damn that it’s a were-creature - morality and criminality are cross-species.”

Derek looked over at him. “And that’s why you’re so good at this. Because you do care, and you know that anyone, any creature can be evil. This wolf - let’s say it’s a wolf, could be any number of animals - may have some redeeming features, but right now, all that matters is that it’s killing people. We just need to find out why. You ruled out common familial connections, right?”

Stiles nodded. “But I didn’t rule out pack affiliations.” He rubbed his face and pushed the bench back till it bounced back against the bed and stood up, moving to the bathroom and back, pacing a path. Derek watched him, watched him think, and yes. With Stiles, thinking was a tangible image, and Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, seeing the thought bubble hanging over Stiles like a bulging rain cloud, ready to let loose at any moment and soak the room.

The storm broke. “How the hell could I have forgotten? Seriously, how the fuck? Why did this not even occur to me when I saw the pictures? What is the _matter_ with me?”

Derek blinked, cause Stiles’ tone was so angry - angry at the world, angrier at himself. “Stiles, it’s been a million years since you’ve been involved with …”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking **matter**! I can’t afford to forget, I can’t afford to not draw on that knowledge, I can’t afford to fuck up!”

Derek shouldn’t have flinched, but he did. He’d never encountered this version of Stiles and none of his previous replies or mannerisms would work here. “You haven’t fucked up,” he tried. “It’s been almost ten years since you were involved with anything like this, you’ve seen a million crime scenes since then. There is no logical reason why you’d look at this and scream “Werewolf!”

Stiles glared at him. ‘Yeah, and for three of those years, werewolves, coyotes, alphas, omegas, kitsunes and oh, let’s not forget nogitsunes, were the only fucking things I thought about! All day, every day! It’s not okay that I didn’t see that!”

His voice was raised almost to a shout now, and Derek stood up, then held out his hands, trying to de-escalate. “We think differently about this,” he said, voice even and low, calm. “I have one perspective, you have another. That’s fine. You process this information however you need to.”

He took a breath. “I’m going to go back to my room and change into some running clothes and get some of this energy out. I will leave you to do whatever you feel is best right now.”

Stiles was still breathing heavily, but managed, “There’s a pissed off werewolf psychopath out there and you want to go running in a place you don’t know, in the dark. That’s brilliant thinking, top notch.”

That stung, and now, Derek did glare. “I’d ask you to come with me for protection, but there’s no way you could keep up with your little two pack-a-day habit, Special Agent Stilinski.”

“Fuck you, Derek! I can still run your wolfy ass off!”

“Bullfuckingshit,” Derek snarled back. “One mile in and you’d be calling a goddamn Uber, which in this town, is probably some dude on a ten-speed. I’m fine. More than fine.” He waved his hand at the room. “Scowl, review, smoke, ponder, jerk off - whatever makes you happy.”

He grabbed his leather jacket and stared at Stiles a moment. “If you want to flog yourself for not being perfect, let me give you a little advice - it will never make anything better, but it will make everything worse. Source? My whole fucking **life.** ”

Derek left then, not waiting for any snappy retorts from Stiles and in his room, swiftly stripped and pulled on track pants and a tank top, his trainers, and headed back out, angry and tense.

He ran. He ran down the main road, deserted at 9 PM, around the school and its track field, and then followed a mining road, jumping a ditch, shifting into beta form and letting out a growl - and when he was out of town, he howled. 

The night was almost perfectly still, black, other than the stars, and he howled again, ridding himself of the emotion - and then his skin prickled, for far away, he heard an answering howl of another wolf.

He didn’t stick around to see who it might be, however; despite his ire at Stiles, he was out here alone, and although Derek could more than hold his own in any fight, he had no idea how many others there might be, and what their level of communication was. Technically, he could very well be in their territory, and therefore, unwelcome. And Stiles didn’t know where he was, and fuck, might not even care. He didn’t know this Stiles anymore. Or at least it didn’t feel like he did.

He ran, finding his way back to town via a secondary main road, and when he was in the parking lot of the Kozy Komfort, he leaned against his Pathfinder and breathed, great lungfuls of air and steadied his heartbeat for a couple of long moments, before going back to his room. Stiles’ lights were still on, and there was a lingering whiff of cigarette smoke outside the door, but Derek didn’t knock. He needed time to process, and hell, he wasn’t sure he could be civil right now, and it didn’t seem that Stiles could be either. So, he didn’t even try.

He lay on his bed, breathed - and then got up to triple check the locks on all the windows.

*~*

Stiles had stewed. It wasn’t pondering, it wasn’t carefully analyzing the situation, it was stewing, emotions sloshing in his mind, soaking his brain in memories that he’d rather forget. Who the fuck did Derek think he was, giving him shit? Those days were over, son, and the sooner the wolf understood that, the better off they’d be. This was not Beacon Hills. He was not seventeen and someone to be disregarded or pushed aside so the big bad wolves could take care of saving the world. This was his world, now - stats and crime scenes, blood spatter, the dissection of human emotions and motives. This was science and intuition, training, and talent. And if Derek couldn’t respect how he worked, well, fuck him with a silver bullet.

And he could absolutely run Derek’s ass off. He might be panting and wish he were dead later, but he could, and that was the point. And when he’d gone outside to smoke, and only managed half of a cigarette because Derek’s snarl was behind his eyes, he’d cursed and slammed his motel door like a four-year-old. He hated that Derek made him feel that way, always had, except for once - no, twice. The first time, he’d looked over his shoulder at a dying Derek in Mexico, seen those eyes urging him to go in, to save Scott, that he’d be okay. And he had been. He’d been reborn, and Stiles would never forget the eyes as the huge black wolf looked down at him, at a cowering Kate Argent, and had spared her. 

Stiles wouldn’t have. He would have ripped her Chanel-scented throat out and spat the blood on her chest. Then, and now. This is what he told himself. What he believed.

The second time had come back to him as he lay in his boxers on the scratchy blanket, A/C up to meat-locker levels. The night of the FBI raid when his superiors still believed Derek to be a murderer, and Stiles had managed to get his trainer to allow him to go in with the team to “Subdue and apprehend the suspect.” And Stiles had come off looking pretty good when he actually had been able to, you know, apprehend the suspect. Sort of.

The moments when they were alone, soaked by sprinklers - and yes, Derek had been carrying him, fine - and they had looked at each other, years of unresolved tension rising and cresting, finding a moment of release in a kiss, and then another, and another, hearts slamming against each other chest’s, and in those endless moments, Stiles had experienced a feeling of rightness that he’d never felt since.

The fact that he could stand there in Deaton’s examination room and verbally spar with Derek later as though the moment had never happened, was a testament to his early-developed ability to compartmentalize. He had no idea what Derek had thought in those moments, or if he’d put it away in a drawer too.

He loved Lydia, and she was the culmination of all his middle and high-school dreams. Her loving him back had been the stuff of high school legend, and every single second had been as he imagined, up until the end. He had expected the end, actually, cause dreams only last so long outside the wishful mind, and he had let her go gracefully - for him. He’d surprised himself. And Marcy, well - they’d been in the same rookie class, had connected over coffee and become fast friends, and she’d filled the void left by Scott and the others with her presence, her love for “Toonami,” her brilliant mind and her butter chicken, which was basically heaven’s take-out. Their love had grown slowly and stayed fast, and Stiles had never looked back since meeting her. Derek was relegated to a far closet in the mansion of his brain, and there he’d stayed - mostly - till today. 

He’d been tempted to call and rage at his father for sending Derek, but all that would accomplish would be making John feel bad, and Stiles would rather forgo Mountain Dew forever than do that intentionally. He had no idea what John might know about him and Derek, or if there was anything to know. He wasn’t privy to the sheriff-deputy relationship the other two men enjoyed. And honestly, sometimes that bothered him. Derek was the son John had probably always wanted.

Ugh, no, he wasn’t going down that path. Or any path. He was going to close the fucking road to further traffic. He had a job to do here and Derek could help. He just had to treat him like he would any other colleague and fuck the past. There was a reason it wasn’t the present. 

He slept fitfully, and in his hazy dreams, he heard wolves howling in the distance.

*~*

The next morning, he was up early as hell because sleep, what was sleep? He showered quickly, dressed and stepped out to have a quick morning smoke, noting that Derek’s door was still shut, and the shades drawn. He thought a moment, then sighed.

One of the few amenities of the Kozy Komfort was the fact that the owner’s daughter owned a bakery in the next town and as part of her morning route, she dropped a small selection of pastries off each day. If you could get to them before her father ate them all, it was some good stuff. He managed to snag two cinnamon rolls that were as large as bed pillows and two containers of surprisingly good dark roast. Black with sugar for him, and he had a small stash of creamer and sugar packets ‘cause he had no idea how Derek took his coffee. Probably completely black like some sort of barbarian.

He checked his phone, reviewed a few emails, and got the genealogist’s number from the local directory in his room, and sat on the steps outside, looking up when Derek’s door opened, and he stepped out. Derek had on a simple pair of black khakis and a blue button-down shirt, his badge hanging around his neck on a chain.

He looked down at the small pile of offerings and had to smile a little. “Good morning, Agent.”

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” replied Stiles. “I got you coffee - don’t know how you take it - and a cinnamon roll. Consider it a sort of peace offering.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “My initial reaction is to say we weren’t fighting, but we were, and we should be used to that, I suppose.”

He sat down on his step and reached for the coffee, dumping all the sugar and all the cream into the container, while Stiles watched in disbelief. “Are you sure you’re not considered “Sweetwolf” because of that concoction right there?”

Derek grinned. “Nope, but I do like my coffee rich. My Sweetwolf designation is due to how kind, friendly and accommodating I am to all and sundry.”

Stiles nearly spit out his coffee. “Since when?”

Derek simply smiled and sipped his coffee, then reached for the cinnamon roll, which Stiles had thoughtfully provided a small plate, napkins and a plastic fork for. “Dear fuck, look at this.”

“It’s like a sugarplum fairy coming in your mouth,” said Stiles, and Derek snorted inelegantly, while Stiles went on. “You were never nice. It was your thing. You were Not Nice Derek, and often, Surlywolf, Sourwolf, Scowlywolf and Snarkywolf.”

“Aren’t some of those titles redundant?” Derek moaned into his roll. “Jesus, you were not kidding; my taste buds haven’t had this much foodsex in ages.”

Stiles wanted to laugh, cry, and smack his hand on his forehead, but he chose two and went with laugh and smack. “You’re something else, Lieutenant.”

“My mom used to tell me the same thing,” said Derek, wiping frosting off his beard. “Though she called me Captain, but hey, something to strive for.” He needed about four more napkins, and luckily, there was a pile there. He kept eating, and Stiles watched him for a moment before setting into his own roll, and they ate, occasionally lip-smacking cause you kind of had to.

Derek finished first and got up to go wash hands and check the beard, then resumed his spot. “So, on my run last night, I was a little frustrated, as you know. I shifted into beta mode to run faster and harder, and at one point, I howled.”

Stiles looked up, wiping his own face, which was fortunately sans beard because he was a messy eater. “Did you now?”

“I did. Not once, but twice - instinct, I wasn’t expecting anything, but I had an answering howl. It was far off, but I didn’t stick around to meet the owner, because a wolf howl means two things.”

“You were in another pack’s territory, firstly, and secondly, you were right about there being wolves in the area.” Stiles balled up his napkins and got up to toss all the trash, then sat back down and lit up, keeping the smoke downwind of Derek. “I assume you bailed ass home.”

“You assume correctly,” replied Derek, sipping his coffee. “Because despite the tone and the ire of the words, you were right. Running in an area I don’t know, with potential hostile wolves and no way to reach you, since my cell was on the bed in the room, was not my best idea. You were right, and I was wrong. I was also an asshole about the running comments and I’m sorry.”

Stiles was silent a moment. “I was being a dick to you too. I’m sorry.”

Derek looked over at him; they were alone, it was still early. “I think we’re gonna have moments like that,” he said simply. “You are not the Stiles I knew, in many ways. I’m not the same Derek you knew either, so this is all new. I still maintain that if you want me to go, I will. I’m not trying to drag you back into the past or fuck up your present. I’m impressed as hell by you. I’m proud. You’ve made a hell of a life for yourself and I am sincerely glad. It’s a little weird, can’t lie - you’re this big hotshot, you have a girl, you have a home, a career - it’s enviable. I defer to you here - this is your game. You tell me where to move the pieces on this board.”

Stiles looked down. “I wasn’t ready for you.”

“I know. I wasn’t ready for you either.” Derek took a breath. “We have history, Stiles. All kinds of it. I haven’t forgotten a moment of it, and I bet you haven’t either. But it shouldn’t be insurmountable.”

“It’s not. It’s not. We can do this.” Stiles sounded surer than he felt.

That fucking bunny smile was his reward for that statement. “We can.”

The emotional component of the day over - and by 6.45 AM, no less - Stiles pulled out his notebook. “I hear she’s an early riser, so I thought I might call at 8 AM and see if she’d be willing to see us - the genealogist,” he added, in case Derek was confused. “She’s an older lady and apparently still sharp as hell and she comes from a large family that’s lived here forever. Parsons seems to think she beats the library for information, and having seen the library, he’s probably right.”

“Do they have a local paper?” asked Derek. “What kind of coverage did all this get locally? I only saw online articles.”

“You saw it all then. The neighboring town has a small paper, but it basically said, “Killer on the loose,” and that was the full extent of the reporting.”

“Comforting.”

“Mmm. So,” Stiles templed his fingers. “At least some of those marks on the corpses were made by a wolf, or other were creature, and you heard a howl last night. I think we need to find out if there’s pack history in this area. There must be, right? Pack activity was not limited to the Western US.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said Derek, sipping. “In fact, my mother had contacts across the US, and I’m sure she did business with packs in New England. And frankly, we’re living in the mid-states equivalent of Castle Rock, so I don’t even know why I was surprised.”

“Imagine Stephen King here,” mused Stiles. “Maybe we should invite him here for a field trip for the creepy minded.”

Derek laughed, then paused, and grimaced. “You know who can find out about pack history in the US, especially the nitty gritty stuff, don’t you?”

“Peter,” said Stiles, and Derek groaned, while Stiles grinned. “Yes.”

“Fuck my life,” grumbled Derek, and that one statement, coupled with Derek’s expression, made Stiles’ day. No matter what else happened, he had that comment and look to reflect on. 

He stood up. “Let’s continue this in the FedMobile,” he said, because air conditioner and no eavesdropping possible, and extended a hand to help pull Derek up, tugging him up with surprising strength. They were face to face, close, for a second, hands still clasped, and Derek felt a shiver run down his spine; he couldn’t tell what Stiles was thinking.

Then Stiles let go, and reached to pick up his bag, his coffee, and pat his pockets to make sure he had an adequate amount of lighters, and then headed over to his SUV, Derek following, shaking his head to clear his mind.

In the air-conditioned interior of the vehicle, Stiles glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s like 4 AM in Beacon Hills, though,” he noted, starting to reach for his phone, and Derek growled. “Fuck him, he stays up all night watching porn and PBS. Interchangeably, at that.” He already had his phone in hand, and grimly punched in numbers, putting it on speakerphone while Stiles wondered what kind of a combination that kind of entertainment made for. Peter was a piece of work.

It rang once, twice, three times, and then “Someone had better be dying, and it better be you, Derek,” and Derek flipped off the phone, making Stiles laugh. 

“He’s not dying, unless all that cream and sugar in his coffee is clogging his veins.”

“Ah, Stiles!” the tone immediately changed, pissing Derek off even more; Peter was a fucking asshole wolf, no matter what designer sheep’s clothing he was wearing on any given day. “To what do I owe the honor, even at this dubious hour?”

Stiles leaned in. “I’m sorry for the ass o’clock hour, Peter, but I need your help, if you would be willing to lend it. I’m working on a nasty case in West Virginia - I don’t know if you’ve seen any news reports of three ugly murders? That’s my gig right now. Derek is here assisting me, and he suspects some were-creature activity. You have that database, and a memory for this stuff, right?”

There was a long moment of silence, until Derek growled. “Don’t fall back asleep on us, you bastard.”

“I didn’t, and you don’t need to be a dick, nephew,” snapped Peter. “No manners, honestly. None. I am simply delighted to hear from our Stiles, FBI Agent Extraordinaire, and find you being at his side a curious occurrence.”

Stiles looked at Derek, whose brows had become one straight line. “Well, it’s nothing spicy, sorry. Dad listened to me bitching about the case one night, asked Derek to come out and lend a hand. Derek did, and he’s been helpful already and it’s been one day. He recognized that some of the marks on the bodies were human-made, and some were, well, not. And last night he was out running and howled because I’d pissed him off and heard a reply howl. Didn’t stick around for a meet and greet though.”

“Well at least my nephew is smarter than he looks,” replied Peter, while Derek scowled and made faces at the phone which indicated what he would like to do to Peter if they were face-to-face. Stiles was mightily amused. “Running in unknown territory and possibly crossing pack lines, with no backup is not wise.”

“I said that exact same thing and he got pissy with me,” said Stiles with satisfaction and Peter laughed. “I bet he did. So, neither of you are harmed, which is good, and you’re thinking there’s a pack or at least an omega in that area that might be relevant to the murders?”

“Basically, yeah. Would you help us? Or at least me?”

Derek scowled - Peter chuckled. “Of course, if I can. Where are you?”

“Bartley, West Virginia,” Stiles started, and Peter interrupted. “Where the mining disaster happened?”

“Which one? There are a shit-ton of them in this state throughout history,” said Stiles, already punching up the information on his iPad.

“January 10, 1940, killed 91 miners,” said Peter, who did have a memory that tended to retain odd facts. “And it’s been considered suspicious for years.”

Stiles was reading, but managed his default “Why?”

“Because of some special features found on the miners they managed to excavate,” replied Peter, and Derek looked up. “Were any of them in shift?”

“Good boy,” said Peter. “Three were in beta shift, and at least one had been in full wolf form and had only started to shift back - he was written off as “deformed,” though the mine’s primary owner, a man by the name of Sutton, claimed they’d never seen him looking like anything but a normal man.”

“Sutton … goddammit, that sounds familiar.” Stiles lit a cigarette and turned on the vent. “I know I’ve heard that name.”

“Family,” said Derek suddenly. “Starcher. There were some rough family tree sketches in the information that the Sheriff gave you, cause you said the tax rolls didn’t give enough information, so the younger one had made you a couple of charts to show connections, or lack thereof.”

“Right. I remember thinking it was less of a sketch and more of a clusterfuck,” mused Stiles, and on the other end, Peter sighed. 

“Well, you’re in an area where people are often connected on many levels, shall we say. But regardless - the shifted bodies were not allowed to be viewed - the management had the remains burned, and no one was the wiser. They simply claimed the bodies were mangled beyond recognition and that they were saving the families more pain by not allowing them to be seen. Illegal, but law and order was not the town’s strong suit back then.”

“Or now,” added Stiles. “Shit, so we have pack activity. A wolf was most likely involved in the kills, there’s a connection between the first victim and a dead miner.” He looked over at Derek, who looked grim, and then back at the phone. “Peter, will you copy and paste whatever information you can find into some sort of order and email it to me? Or call me with it, and then email it?”

“I can,” said Peter, yawning. “What’s in it for me? More Facetime with you and your lovely lady?”

“Don’t be creepy,” snapped Derek, then regretted it instantly, cause all Peter needed was an opening.

“What’s the matter, Derek, are you jealous? I don’t suppose you’ve met the lovely Marcy yet, have you? She is a special one.”

“Peter, Derek’s only recently met me,” sighed Stiles. “Me now, not me then. And whatever you want. All the aconite-spiked bourbon you can drink and, I don’t know, a lovely tropical fruit basket.”

“Hmm, I could soak the pineapple in the bourbon, and be healthy, drunk _and_ regular,” said Peter thoughtfully. “How kind of you to look out for my gastrointestinal health, Agent.”

Stiles laughed, amused even more by the expression Derek wore, even as his mind was spinning and clicking, making connections, opening new files and tabs. “I’m a kind sort of guy. Peter, this has been invaluable, seriously. If you can find out who the pack was in this area, what connection they had to the mine, and where they’re at now, I’d appreciate it and will owe you big. I’ll have Marcy shake her hair at you again next call - you seemed to enjoy that.”

“I did, I did. Natural curls are my thing. One of my things. Is her mother single? Cause I …”

“We’re done here, thank you, Uncle of my thirty-five-year-old self,” said Derek meaningfully. “You’ve been a huge help, much appreciated.”

“Are you calling me old?” shrieked Peter, and for the first time during this conversation, Derek grinned. “Yes. Bye now!”

He ended the call, and Stiles extinguished his burnt-out cigarette just before burning his fingers. “Nice jab there, Sweetwolf.”

“Seriously, he will never not be an opportunistic pervert,” grumbled Derek. “And he was sexualizing your girlfriend.”

“He was, yeah, and if he pushed it further than that, I would come down on him like a ton of bricks, but trust me, Marcy can take care of herself They exchanged hair care tips last time we all spoke.”

Stiles checked his Apple watch, and turned the key in the ignition, then thumbed his phone and handed it to Derek. “So that you can see for yourself.”

Derek did not want to see, not even a little, but he took the phone and looked at the photo. Holy shit - the girl was a knockout. Delicate features, a slightly upturned nose, white smile, and a whole lot of tousled chestnut curls.

“She’s grown her hair some since that pic,” said Stiles, not missing even the smallest flicker of expression. “But the weight drags down the curls when she does that, so I’m hoping she changes it up to be all wild this summer. It’s so cute when she’s all bedhead and sleepy.”

“I imagine it is,” Derek managed, sounding normal enough. “She’s a beauty, Stiles.”

“Yeah, she is,” he replied, taking the phone back. “I’ve had three gorgeous girlfriends, and two of them were, are, smarter than I am, could have anyone, and still want me. One of the great mysteries of my life.”

“Shouldn’t be. You have a habit of underestimating yourself,” said Derek. “Actually, it's more a split between being sure you have a lot going on, and simultaneously think you have nothing going on.”

“Is that so, Doctor?” Stiles backed out of the parking space. “You think I have a high and low opinion of myself going on at the same time?”

“Well, you used to, or so it seemed to me, but then again, what the fuck do I know?”

Derek looked out the window, composing himself as they pulled into the one convenience store in town. “Do you need anything?” asked Stiles, before sliding out of the vehicle, and Derek shook his head, watching Stiles lope into the tiny store.

He rubbed his face - none of this was easy, none of it. He hadn’t thought it would be, but still, he was not prepared for all the changes. Even though he knew better, part of him had still, somehow, expected Stiles to be the same boy he’d left after the Hunter Wars. And he wasn’t.

He blinked when Stiles was back with a bag of what appeared to be snacks and water and was dialing the local lady; he listened to him sweet talk her into seeing them, having to smile a little into his beard. Stiles could be very charming when he wanted to, and when he hung up, he smiled. “She’ll either be a wealth of information or clam up like a, well, clam. She seems interested in “aiding in the pursuit of justice,” so we’ll see. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“That’ll kill you,” offered Stiles helpfully as he lit another cigarette and Derek just rolled his eyes and leaned his head back on the leather headrest.

They pulled into the driveway of the tiny bungalow-style house about fifteen minutes later - they’d taken the scenic route - and were greeted by a little peanut of a woman who couldn’t be more than 4’11 - her booming voice was completely at odds with her physical appearance, and Stiles was sure that was on purpose. It was effective, anyway.

“Mrs. Prentiss?” Stiles smiled at her and extended a hand; she shook it carefully, eyeing him, and then Derek. “So, this is what the FBI looks like today. I was expecting suits.”

“Well, normally I would be wearing one but since I was out in the field, I settled for a shirt and tie. This is my associate, Lieutenant Hale of Beacon Hills PD.”

She looked them over. “Beacon Hills, is that nearby?”

“No ma’am, it’s in California, near Sacramento,” said Derek. “I’m here consulting with Agent Stilinski.”

“Well, you’re a damn sight better to look at than those clowns in the Sheriff’s office,” she noted. “Potatoes with badges, is what. And a gun belt, cause big men, you know.” She waved them in. “Come, sit, tell me what I can do for our government.”

She paused. “How do you gentlemen feel about birds?”

They exchanged looks. “No current issues, ma’am.”

“Good. Watch out for the droppings, then. I try to stay on top of it, but they just won’t stop shitting.”

Derek’s brows shot up and he followed Stiles into a large, old-fashioned parlor-type room that was, well, alive with sound. So much sound. And color. And beady little eyes and talons and yes, poop. 

Jenny Prentiss liked birds. She liked them so much she had seventeen of them, give or take; parakeets, cockatoos, the odd parrot and some other little buggers that Stiles couldn’t identify, but suspected they were basic birds who heard there was a party goin’ on and wandered in, found food, and never left again, cause ain’t no party like a parakeet party.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and found a spot not covered in newspapers; Derek stood until Stiles nudged him and he grudgingly pulled up a straight-backed chair, scanning for white or gray matter, and fortunately, finding none. He sat.

“I appreciate you seeing us on short notice,” Stiles began. “I understand that this is all a little gruesome and scary, so if at any point, you don’t wish to continue, please tell me and I’m happy to back off.”

She eyed him. “That’s a nice speech for society ladies, but I’m Bartley born, bred, gonna die here too - probably in this chair. Or the toilet, ‘cause God loves comedy. Nothing much fazes me Agent, and I’ve already talked to Tater and Tater Tot at the station, on account of that imbecile Magnus being my sixth? Seventh cousin. Like the rest of the town.” She looked at the clock. “Well, well, 8.30 AM. Time for my medicine.”

She left, and Stiles was delighted. “I need her in my life,” he told Derek, and then she returned with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a shot glass. “Supposin’ you don’t drink on duty,” she said, and poured her first shot of the day. “Pity.”

“It really is,” said Stiles with great feeling, and she snorted, downed the shot, shook herself. “This stuff is shit,” she announced, pouring another shot, nonetheless. “What I wouldn’t give for some good moonshine.”

She smiled. “This, boys, is what you call a stereotype, but I don’t care. My daddy made the best ‘shine in West Virginia for near 80 years. Learned from my grandpa.”

Jenny settled herself and lit a cigarette. “Also shit, but fixed income, see. You, Brown Eyes, go ahead. I see you twitching over there, and that finger gives you away.”

Stiles looked down at the callus. “Does, doesn’t it? What about the birds?”

“Ain’t dropped dead yet. They just fly to the porch. Go on now, smoke up, relax, ask your questions. I got nowhere to be.”

Stiles grinned and Derek shook his head, leaning back as Stiles lit up. “What’s your vice, handsome? Everyone’s got one.”

“Greasy onion rings, and now, cinnamon rolls from the motel. I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, Merry’s baking is good, good stuff.” She nodded, downed the second shot. “So.”

“So,” said Stiles as she pushed an ashtray over. “We’re told that you know a huge amount of history of this area. You know we’re working on the murders.”

“The mine murders, yes.”

“Ah, mine murders?”

“Yessir. All them victims are relatives of those dead miners.”

Stiles looked at Derek, and then both back at Jenny. “The one in 1940?”

“Yep. They say it was one of the worst in history, and I’m here to tell you it was. I was just a little tiny girl then, but I remember. Got one of those - what is it? That thing Sheldon Cooper has on that TV show?”

“Eidetic memory?”

“Yes, that. See, hear, read things, never forget it. Much of a curse as a blessing when you get this old, let me tell you.”

“I can imagine,” said Stiles. “My memory is pretty good and there are days I wish it wasn’t.”

“Mmm, wait till you’re old and can’t forget a lifetime of crap. That’s why I got this, help me forget.” She patted the whiskey bottle. “But anyway. All these victims, this Starcher, Selben and that moron Munson - all related to miners. Not the ones who died, mind you. The ones who were part owners of the mines. Back then, all those families were somethin’, now they’re just townies like the rest of us.”

She eyed them. “Let me guess. You asked if they were related and those bloody lawmen said nope, nope, nope. And they’re not related to each other - officially. You know these places are rabbit hutches and no one much cares who’s blood and who’s not. And I hear that after the explosion, the records of the mine’s business mysteriously disappeared. You know computers weren’t even a gleam in some genius’ eye yet, so written records were all we had.”

Stiles was biting his lip. “So, these guys aren’t related to each other, but each one of them is related to an owner, of sorts, of the mine that exploded - there is a familial connection, just not the one we thought of.” He scowled. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

He looked up, and Jenny and Derek were both watching him. “You ain’t no idiot, Brown Eyes. You’ve just never lived in this kind of place, with these kinds of people. Now, that chump, Hopper? He won’t help you. He’s buried deep in this town and they don’t like outsiders. Anything he told you, forget it. His parents were bloody twins, for God’s sake!”

Derek gaped. “For real?”

She laughed. “No, but close enough. My point being, the only one who’s worth his salt there is young Parsons. His daddy still has ties to the old families, Hopper is nine cents short of a dime, but young one? He wanted to be more. Wanted to go to the criminal justice academy over in Blue Ridge, but Daddy said no. Might learn too much, get too big for his britches. But he’s way smarter than his Daddy, mostly cause his mom came from educated parents in North Carolina.”

Stiles was processing all this, took a last drag on his smoke, ground it out, while Derek took it up. “The miners that died - did they have any connection?”

Jenny paused. “Well, if you call being shapeshifters a connection, then I suppose so.”

Derek swallowed. “Shapeshifters?”

“Allegedly,” she said. “It was a big mine, you see, and a small group of owners. And mining’s a grim way to make a living at any time, but back then, there was no such thing as safety measures or gauges or radar technology - hey, I watch television, I know this stuff! There was only the actual canary in a coal mine,” her eyes traveled to her own pets, “and shapeshifters. It was said they could smell trouble, and had been for a while, tried to tell the owners, no one listened. They were called troublemakers and even in a place like this, a group of ‘em stuck to themselves. Cause its always been “if you pretend there ain’t problems, there ain’t any,” you see. Willful ignorance.”

“In every single part of society,” said Derek, and she nodded. “Sad, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

Stiles took up now, cause his mind was unraveling like a yarn ball in the grip of a bored cat. “Okay, so we have a profitable mine, but there’s a group that’s already considered odd telling the owners that trouble is coming, of some sort. The owners don’t want to hear it, but the miners persist. Then there’s an explosion and they’re trapped and die as a result.”

“So far, so good. One more shot for the old lady,” said Jenny, and took it. “Okay, enough till noon. Right, so a lot of miners died in that explosion - every family in town lost people. But the family they called shapeshifters?”

“All died,” said Derek, choosing his words carefully. “On purpose, to shut them up.”

“I believe so. Lots of people think so. Cause the shifters -if that’s what they were - were good people, they weren’t looking to ruin the mine, they were looking out for safety, for everyone. They shopped in town, they went to potlucks, they gave to the church. Good people, you know? Kind people.”

Derek was thinking of his mother and father, who had also been good people. “How … why did people think they were supernatural?”

“Ah, that. People claimed that in the mine, when things weren’t going well, that their eyes glowed. Not like regular eyes. Like wolf eyes, cat eyes, dog eyes, in the light. Said they glowed yellow, sometimes blue. One claims the father’s eyes were red, but miners drink a lot.”

Derek looked over at Stiles, who looked furious and frustrated. ”Do you remember their names? The family?”

“Really, Brown Eyes? Do I remember? Of course, I do. Their name was Halestrom.”

Derek went cold; he felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the gut.

His great-grandfather had been a Halestrom, and when his grandfather had moved to Californian, he’d changed his name to Hale for ease. Laura had done research on her dad’s family for a school project, and Derek remembered liking Halestrom as a last name ‘cause it sounded strong, sounded solid, somehow. Like his dad.

Stiles was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear him, and only came to when a warm, nearly hot, gnarled hand gripped his. He looked up into her own eyes. “I guess I should call you Blue Eyes then.”

“Can I get a glass of water?” his voice was a croak, and Jenny nodded. “In the kitchen, in the fridge, there’s a pitcher. Drink up.”

Derek stumbled to his feet and left, and Stiles took a deep breath. “Fuck.” And then, “Sorry ma’am, unprofessional of me to swear. I apologize.”

“Don’t. I’ve said a curse word or 800 in my life.” Jenny sighed. “Born or bitten, that one?”

“Born.”

“The hell with it,” muttered Jenny and took another shot. Stiles would have been wobbling if he were her, but she was steady.

Stiles paged through his phone, looking for details on the mine explosion, and when he found it, he scanned, then paled. “A notable aspect of the Bartley mine explosion of January 1940 is the great cloud of black dust that billowed out of the mine shaft moments before earth and chunks of the wooden structure collapsed inward on the miners working below. It resembled smoke but was not; it fell to the ground and disappeared into it.”

He took a breath, continued. “What is considered curious about this collapse, among other things, is that several miners trapped further back in the tunnels managed to escape, while others nearer the surface did not. There seems to be no logical reason for the miners closest to freedom did not make it out, while others did.”

Derek’s voice was hollow from the doorway. “What do you want to bet that black cloud was made of?”

“Mountain ash,” whispered Stiles. “These were murders. Deliberate, planned, murders.”

“What is mountain ash?” asked Jenny, who was struck by these two; their reactions, their evident bond, their shared distress.

“It’s a powder made of a wood that repels supernatural creatures,” said Derek slowly. “If there are shapeshifters, or any supernatural beings, they cannot cross a line that has been marked with ash. The miners close to the surface couldn’t cross that line. It was a trap. Humans can cross it, never know it’s there. To us, it’s a barrier.”

He didn’t realize he’d said “to us,” till a moment later, but hell, she’d already seen his eyes.

“Dear God,” she said, then reached for his badge on the chain; he let her. “Lieutenant Derek Hale,” and took a breath, making the connection. “My dear boy, I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Without you we’d never know.” Derek tucked his badge back into his shirt. “So, this family died. The murderer is targeting descendants of the mining families as revenge. He or she also shifts, and they’re trying to mask the scenes as human-made, but their rage gets the better of them.”

“Frenzy.” 

“Yeah, most likely.” Derek looked at Jenny. “Can we ask you to keep our confidence? I understand if you have loyalty to this area and its people - but murder is wrong, no matter who you are and why you’re doing it.”

“I won’t tell a soul, Blue and Brown. I’m old, mind you. I’ve seen a whole lot, never forgotten and I like you two.” She smiled, and she was lovely when she smiled. “And honestly, this is the most excitement and best conversation I’ve had in years. Don’t suppose you two could come by now and again?”

Stiles had to smile back. “I’d love to. It’s not that bad of a ride from DC.”

They got up to go, and moved towards the door; Derek’s neck prickled, and he sniffed. “Stay here.”

He went out the door, turned his head; the scent was stronger here, but dissipating rapidly. Someone had been here. Someone had heard.

Someone who was like him.

Jenny and Stiles were on the porch now, Stiles on alert and worried. “Derek?”

His mind was racing. Would the murderer hurt Jenny now? She’d led them to this lead, She’d done what she could, already – the damage was done. But still …

“Do you own a gun?” he asked her, and she snorted. “I live in Bartley, West Virginia. I was born with a pistol clutched in my wee hand. But yes, I own a Glock.”

Stiles kind of loved this lady. “And I bet you are aces with it.”

“Damn right. Old eyes and all.”

Stiles was already following Derek’s train of thought, and went to his ride; in the back, in the space between the spare and the jack, was a small box of bullets. It had been there for years now, and he’d nearly forgotten about it. He had taken it from Roscoe before giving it over to Scott, and never looked again. Till now.

He withdrew three bullets of pure silver and closed it up again, gripping them tightly. “Jenny. Put these in your Glock and keep it near you. This will incapacitate or kill any shapeshifter. If anything happens, call me immediately, any hour, I don’t sleep.”

She took them, looking at them curiously. “I will.”

“Do you want us to get you a room near us? The FBI will pay for it.”

“Hell no, this is my home. I got my birds to keep me company and keep me safe. No one could sneak in here, promise.”

Derek sighed. “I’m sorry. We never wanted you to be in danger.”

She looked at him kindly. “I’ve lived through wars, Blue Eyes. Recession, poverty, need, all my life. I’ve lost two husbands, three children and countless pets. I know danger, I know pain. And I’m a pissy old lady now. People should fear me.”

Impulsively, Stiles kissed her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you. You’re amazing, and you’ve done more to help me - us - in an hour, that anyone else in over a month. I will blow away anyone who tries to hurt you, I promise.”

She laughed. “I believe you. Good luck, boys. I’ll be reading about you in the paper.”

They smiled, and both turned to go, Derek turning back. “Can you still get into the mines?”

She thought. “The main entrance is closed off, has been for years, but I heard there was an entrance over the town line in Atwell. Behind the old library. It’s not used, but you might be able to check it out. Be careful if you do. Be careful in general, cause now I’m fond of you.”

They waved at her as they left, and she turned to go back into the house. As she entered, there was a short screech of a parakeet, then silence.

Dead birds carpeted the floor, and as Jenny opened her mouth to scream, a razor-sharp claw slashed her throat, and she staggered and fell, blood pooling immediately. She gurgled her last breath moments later.

When she was found, a whole day later, the silver bullets still gleamed in the puddle of blood where they’d fallen.

*~*

Derek and Stiles returned to the motel, both deep in thought, and without agreeing to, entered Stiles’ room, locked the door behind them and sat down heavily, one on each bed, thinking.

After a few minutes, Stiles got up and pulled off his tie and shirt, a simple white t-shirt underneath, and went to the mini fridge, pulling out two beers and handing one to Derek.

They said nothing for a while, till Stiles’ phone chirped and he picked it up out of habit; when he saw the number, he put it on speaker.

“You’re both lucky that I’m basically an insomniac, and that I like you a great deal, Stiles,” from Peter. “And that there was actual helpful information in my records.”

Derek didn’t even growl this time, and Peter sighed. “Don’t sulk, Derek. So, there was pack activity in the region you’re investigating. A rather large pack lived there, and, interestingly enough, their name was …”

“Halestrom,” said Derek, and there was silence from Peter, for a moment at least. “Well. Anticlimactic. But yes, Halestrom, and they were, in fact, a branch of us California Hales. Small world.”

Stiles interrupted here to give Peter a summary of what they’d found out, causing Peter to sigh. “So, what you’re saying is you woke me for nothing? Lovely. However, I do have something you’d like. While the pack was effectively wiped out, one pregnant female left the area after her husband was killed. Slipped away. Her name was Helena Halestrom, very alliterative. She was human, but her child was a born wolf. He mated with the daughter of another alpha in South Carolina and slowly began to grow their pack again, but more humans than wolves came of it, and at present, there’s still only six wolves out of thirteen live births. Her grandson, the second to last born wolf, is named Ellis, and his middle name is Hale after his grandmother. He’s using, apparently, the surname Miller, which is only about the second most common surname in those parts. His social security card shows his name as Ellis H. Miller, and he was born in May of 1990, so he’d be 30 years old. I don’t have a physical description of him but it’s safe to bet he has darker hair, light eyes, and as a wolf, he’s probably on the lean side, tallish, and I suspect he might work in a blue collar sort of industry. There’s no record of his education beyond a diploma from a high school in South Carolina, but he was said to have a keen interest in history. So, if that’s any help …”

Clearly, he thought it was, and Stiles agreed. “Peter, you came through, buddy. I owe you.”

“You do. So much. So very, very much. So much in fact, that I can no longer keep track, and have decided, instead, that you simply owe me your life, and let’s leave it at that.”

“That does seem about right,” mused Stiles, and Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, Uncle you were immensely helpful. I’m glad you care about Stiles enough to be a resource for him.”

He paused. “Are you still harboring a vague hope he might run off with you someday?”

Stiles’ head snapped up. “Say what now?”

“Go to hell, nephew,” growled Peter. “Also, shut the hell up, you insolent little shit, you know nothing. Stiles, good luck, I’m going back to bed. Derek, don’t call me.”

“Wasn’t going to!”

Click, and then dial tone. “What the fuck was that?” said Stiles, confused, and Derek smirked. 

“I like pissing him off. And shit, he did come through.”

“He did, that arrogant asshole,” said Stiles fondly, then, “Are you okay? I mean, really okay?”

Derek rubbed his face. “I am,” he said slowly. “I should be used to people killing off my family by now, but it’s still jarring to hear. It doesn’t seem like it was a personal vendetta though - they were just trying to rid themselves of a potential nuisance. Silence the whistleblowers, basically. It’s the mountain ash aspect that’s hard to handle right now, because that detail turns the murder personal, like the fire.”

Stiles nodded. “I get that,” he replied, and bit his lip. “I know you’re not a share your feelings sort of guy, and honestly, I don’t really specialize in that stuff at this point in my life, either, but we still have this history, so if you want to talk about it, I am here, and I do understand, more than you might think.”

He pulled his laptop over and pulled up the FBI data banks, running a search on Ellis Hale Miller, Ellis H. Miller, E.H. Miller and E. Hale Miller, cause with no real trail of credit, home ownership, job history, one had to try every version of a name. He hit it with E.H. Miller, who was the only one by that name currently traced to West Virginia, and then blinked when he saw the name of his employer.

Deet’s Diner.

He had been hired six months ago as a combination cook’s aid, dishwasher, and busboy, cause even that little place was busy, and everyone went there. And what better place to hear all the gossip? All the stories? Deet had a big mouth and was proud of it. What could Ellis have learned there?

Fucking everything, was what. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed, trying to remember if he’d seen Miller, and he was quite sure he had. Tall, like Peter said. Stooped over, like he tried to not be tall at times. Brown hair, longish, no style to it. Glasses, which were, of course, not needed. Angular face, but nothing outstanding. Not handsome, not ugly. Invisible.

Which was odd; most wolves were abnormally good looking, or maybe Stiles could only think of born wolves looking like Derek, like Peter. He blew out a breath, felt Derek over his shoulder, let him read, heard him suck in his breath the same way Stiles had.

Despite the situation, Stiles turned his head and grinned at Derek, ‘cause they were onto this guy. He felt _right_ and Stiles loved the feeling when a case cracked, when he could worry the seam and break it open - and he could tell from Derek’s eyes that he liked it too.

They were millimeters apart, and Stiles stared into Derek’s eyes for a split second before looking away - he had to. He couldn’t afford emotion now, or really, ever again. Not like he had once upon a time.

Derek drew back, feeling an odd, fleeting sense of disappointment, followed by irritation - at himself.

“He wasn’t working there last night,” he murmured. “I would have smelled him. Maybe he knew we were coming, or maybe he was busy planning his next kill.”

“It feels right, though, doesn’t it? I know he’s our first lead, but you know that feeling when …”

“... when things are starting to move? Yeah, I do. It’s a good feeling, right? Being stalled is frustrating as hell, and I know you’ve been in this space for a while now. Jenny was literal gold, and without her, I’m not sure how far along we’d be.”

“Me either.” Stiles finished his beer. “Next move?”

“Normally I’d say we visit the diner but given that I am absolutely sure I smelled another wolf near Jenny’s, I’m going to assume that he will make himself scarce.”

“Agreed. I’m going to call her and check up on her tonight. I’m sure she’s tough as hell, but still, I worry.”

“Yeah, I think you should.” Derek stood up. “Get your best hiking shoes on, because I think a field trip to Atwell is in order. Load your Ruger with those silver bullets and try to avoid shooting me, cause that smarts like a motherfucker.”

With that, he left and went to his own room, switching out his pants and shirt for jeans and a t-shirt, and loading his own service weapon. His bullets weren’t pure silver, but they were Argent-made, and that was almost worse. Chris was remarried now, to Melissa McCall-Argent, and while he traveled, Beacon Hills was still his home, and he was still willing to help whenever he could. He had given both John and Derek these silver-and monkshood-infused bullets on the off chance that supernatural activity recommenced. So far, it hadn’t, but no one forgot how easily it could.

Redressed and armed, he locked up again, meeting Stiles in the parking lot; he had done the same. The only clue that he was an actual Federal agent was his ID, fastened to his belt. 

“Can we take your Pathfinder? The FedMobile is slightly conspicuous and I think it’s better if passing people assume we’re holed up here.”

“Good idea,” replied Derek, who’d been about to suggest that, and once in the vehicle, he set the GPS for 11 Library Ave - how original - in Atwell, WV.

The drive was dusty, and surprisingly long because there was no direct connection to Bartley and backwoods roads were not anyone’s friends in this region; the Pathfinder had its work cut out for it, but they finally reached Library Road and parked behind the old building. There was no place to conceal the vehicle, so they didn’t even try.

The mine entrance was not clearly marked, and was further away from anything resembling civilization than Derek would have liked, but he pushed that down, and moved softly, senses on alert, Stiles by his side, until they reached a spot they could break boards to enter; Derek made quick work of that.

Part of the tunnel entrance was blocked, but there was enough room to squeeze through, and a few meters later, the tunnel widened enough to walk in single file. Derek moved so that Stiles was in front of him. 

“What am I, a meat shield?” he whispered, and Derek grunted. “At least this way I can keep you in sight and you’re not off side-questing on me.”

Had they been anywhere else, Stiles would have laughed loud enough to bring down the mine all over again, cause there was Funnywolf again, and damn, he was not used to it, but could get used to it, which was worrisome. He clamped a hand over his mouth, which was so Stilesesque of a move that Derek himself nearly laughed. 

They were several hundred meters into the mine, when Derek stopped, tensed, sniffed.

Same smell as at Jenny’s - fainter, but the same. Derek was sure.

He reached for Stiles, nodded, and Stiles nodded back, drawing his gun; the path curved downwards suddenly, and they slid, rocks crumbling away under their boots. So much for stealth, but if Derek could smell him, he could smell Derek too.

Here, the path widened, enough for three men to walk abreast, and the smell was stronger now; far off, Derek could hear a heartbeat, and the odor deepened to fear, then anger.

“No closer, or you die too,” came a voice from ahead … or was it beside them? Underneath? The acoustics were unfamiliar to Stiles, and he cursed inwardly. “Walk away now and let me do what I came here to do.”

“I can’t let you do that, Ellis,” said Stiles, summoning his full FBI presence. “If I have all the information and it’s correct, I can understand why you’re doing this, but as a law enforcement officer, I can’t allow you to continue. Murder may feel justified, but it’s still illegal.”

“I don’t give a shit about legality and I bet your werewolf friend knows that too. I heard him howling in my territory last night.” The voice was rough, uncultured, but not stupid.

“I didn’t know it was yours, or anyone’s,” said Derek calmly, quieting his heartbeat. “I howled out of need, and you howled back. You were at the Prentiss house earlier too.”

The voice held a smile now. “I was. I was there during, for a time, and after too. Those silver bullets were a nice touch, though she never got a chance to use them.”

“What did you do?” Stiles’ voice was low, dangerous. “If you hurt her …”

“I didn’t hurt her. She felt maybe two, three seconds of searing pain and then it was over. She said she understood pain, right? After all that death, poverty and sickness, I did her a favor.”

“You. Fucker,” hissed Stiles, while Derek growled and shifted into beta form next to him. “Guess I won’t bother taking you alive then. It will be an unfortunate use of excessive force.” His hand tightened around the handle, his finger on the trigger, safety off.

“I guess so. But you know, I know these tunnels. You don’t. Even your pet wolf can’t help you, Agent Stilinski. Cause yeah, I know about you, internet and all. Even a shithole like Bartley has the world wide web and any moron can Google. So yeah, I know who you are. And I knew who Lieutenant Hale was too, even before my little eavesdropping adventure earlier. Or should I say, Halestrom?”

“No.” Derek made himself breathe slowly. “It’s Hale. We have no connection.”

“Don’t we?” Both our families died painfully, both were trapped …”

“Stop. We have no similarity. You weren’t even born when this happened, you’re pursuing your own revenge agenda. The loss of my family was immediate and real. Yours is a fantasy you’ve constructed to make yourself feel better about being the worst of our kind.”

An angry, anguished howl shook the tunnel and Stiles, still in front of Derek, rocked as the ground beneath him gave way and he plummeted several feet downward - the drop was so sudden, he couldn’t begin to stop the fall. Derek jumped back just as the earth in front of him began to give, and when he was on solid ground, he dug his claws into the wall for purchase.

Two heartbeats below him. A gunshot, and then another gunshot, the sound of ricocheting off stone.

Then one heartbeat. Just one.

Derek howled, long and loud. 

“STILES!”

**Author's Note:**

> If you've gotten this far, you might be a little ticked off - cliffhangers, you know? I didn't plan for it to happen this way, but you know when a story gets bigger than you expected? You're happily writing along, and you look up, the deadline is looming, and suddenly realized you've released the Kraken?
> 
> It was like that.
> 
> Part II is already nearly done, so it will be posted after the reveals. I hope you all stick around to finish the tale!
> 
> My thanks to the amazing thilia, who always cheers me on and provides invaluable support and input!
> 
>  **thilia:** And of course I will be podficcing the next part(s) as well. :)
> 
> Music used in this part:  
> \- an acoustic version of COPYCAT by Billie Eilish  
> \- the guitar intro of (Don't Fear) The Reaper by Gus  
> \- Psycho Killer by Talking Heads
> 
> Thanks for reading/listening!


End file.
